


The Hand series

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Series: The Hand series [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-04-18
Updated: 1998-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:08:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Twisting little story where Methos "makes" Duncan seduce him.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Forcing the Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twisting little story where Methos "makes" Duncan seduce him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Methos, Duncan and the concept of Immortality belong to Panzer, Davis, Rysher Entertainment, and Gaumont Television. They have since been returned. Promise.

The wind picked up, but hardly moved the fog. Duncan wasn't the first one to feel, Methos stopped dead first.

And then it hit. He looked around, but didn't see anything. Not at first. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the voice came from the shadows.

He turned around and saw the relief in Methos' face that the challenge wasn't for him. He moved away from where the fight would be. The man from the shadows came forward, finally, and looked them over both. His sword was ornate, MacLeod had never seen such work on the hilt. Still nothing spoken. MacLeod pulled his katana, moving away from where Methos stood.

"Not quite yet, MacLeod," the man said, his voice was taunting, but more than that. "Not quite yet. Business before pleasure, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't know you," MacLeod said, voice flat.

"You don't. Your partner wouldn't say that, would you, Methos?" but Methos had gone. They were alone in the alley.

"The boy runs away well, you have him trained," the man said, circling.

"Boy?" MacLeod asked, eyebrow asked, still not attacking.

"Forgive me. Slip of the tongue. You forget just looking at him. Are you his protection?"

"Protection?" MacLeod asked.

They stopped talking. He was good. He was very, very good, but MacLeod was better. When the was able to move again he was able to crawl to where he had thrown his jacket. The quickening came, and the memories the man brought to his head made him ill. They hadn't broken surface yet, and remained sickening under his skin.

He made it back to the barge, but he wasn't alone. He pulled out his katana again, but he was too wired to see that it was only Methos sitting on his couch. Methos saw the look in his eye and jumped backwards over the sofa, keeping the furniture between them. "MacLeod?" he asked, holding out his hand, keeping the other on the couch.

For a moment there was no recognition, and then, for another split second, a curve to his smile that was too familiar for Methos' taste, and then it was just MacLeod. "Damarkus?" he asked.

"Was that his name?" MacLeod asked. He stowed the blade away and went into the shower. When he finished it, he towelled off and went to bed.

The dreams came, and he woke, sweating. He got up, grabbing his jacket and moved quietly past the sleeping blob on his couch. The cold air cooled his skin and it calmed him. But he still could feel the nightmares only they weren't.

Skin on skin...a velvet throat on his cock...willingness forced...these were not his memories. But they were so real. He sighed, going back inside.

The head unburied itself from pile of blankets. "Something's the matter, Mac?" he asked.

"Who was he?" MacLeod asked, voice still gruff.

"I'm sure I wouldn't know," Methos' eyes were warily.

"He knew you," MacLeod said, pushing the legs down to sit beside him.

"He was...an old acquaintance."

"What happened?"

"You don't want to know, MacLeod," Methos said. He stood up, pulling the blankets up with him.

"Is that why I have these images of you--" he said. He couldn't finish.

Methos froze. "Images of me..." he asked, his voice very cold.

"Images of you. And him."

"It's not the first time you have killed one of my keepers, MacLeod," Methos said, sitting down and pulling on his jeans.

MacLeod pulled away. Methos saw the disgust in his eyes and it made the scorn his own double. "Why would you need a keeper?" he demanded.

"I lost," Methos said, so very quiet. "The first time. It got easier."

"How many?"

"Why should that matter?" Methos demanded. He stood up, zipping up his jeans. He grabbed his sweater off the floor. "I didn't want to die. They didn't particularly want to kill me. We made a deal. We both walked away. Eventually."

"And you..."

"Yes. I," Methos said.

He turned to go, but Duncan grabbed his arm. Methos glanced down to it, but the only reason it was still attached to the rest of him was that Methos coat was still two footsteps away. "Let go of me," he said, quietly.

"Is that what...this was to you?" Duncan asked. His voice broke.

That got him immediately released. "I haven't had a keeper in over a thousand years, MacLeod. This is... this was friendship."

Normal human responses never applied to Methos. His eyes were completely devoid of everything. MacLeod swore and let him leave.

 

The next morning he woke up, still on the couch. Last night's quickening had dispelled back into his body and couldn't pull up individual thoughts any more. He made coffee, sitting back and let his words from last night come back with a groan. He never would have said those things if it wasn't for the quickening. But...he would have thought it. Perhaps that was enough. He stood up.

Methos looked up from his balanced sword on his knees in his apartment. "Fight your first fight and your odds of walking away is fifty percent. Surviving two fights is twenty five. The chances of surviving all three of your first fights drops down to twelve and a half percent. Do you know how many battles there has been in five thousand years, MacLeod?"

"I couldn't begin to," MacLeod said, quietly.

"No, you couldn't. I didn't want to die," Methos tucked his sword away and stood up. "Damarkus and I had an arrangement. It...worked for both of us."

"But he hurt you."

Methos bowed his head. "Sometimes," he said. Again, no emotion. He turned around. "Get out of here, MacLeod. You are beginning to make me nervous and I am not liking the flush starting," he said.

"Methos--"

"Get out, MacLeod!" Methos turned on him. There was such hatred in his voice Duncan took a step back.

He hadn't picked up his sword, and still lay at his feet, but Duncan didn't give him a chance to remember it. He shut the door behind him.

 

The dreams continued. They were voiceless and faceless, but he knew who they were and what they were doing. He stopped trying to sleep to stop them, but that didn't work, either. A week later he felt another approach, and then a thump at the door. He answered it with his sword in his hand, but then switched it to his left hand as Methos glared at him, pushing his way past where he stood and threw himself down on the sofa. "What?" Duncan asked.

Methos didn't say anything. Duncan went to the frige and pulled out a beer, passing it over. He poured himself a scotch and didn't sit down.

Duncan watched as it was all but drained and then Methos stood up again. "Well, thanks."

"You're leaving?" Duncan demanded.

"Actually, I am," he said.

"Why?"

"Why should I stay?" he asked.

"Because I'd like to talk.

"Talk," Methos said, voice slightly mocking. "You want to talk to me. About what, MacLeod?"

To shut the bastard up Duncan grabbed him, threw him against the wall and kissed him.

Methos kept his lips pressed together, denying him access to his mouth. He stayed passively in place until Duncan let him move, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He tried to take a step away, but Duncan threw him back again.

"What?" Methos demanded, but still passive under him.

"Where are you going?"

"I don't feel like...talking...MacLeod," Methos said.

Duncan swore at him. Methos took it without flinching. "Are you going to let me go, MacLeod?" he asked.

"Is this it, then? You don't want me?"

Methos laughed, but there was no humour in it. "You missed a step, MacLeod," he said.

"What, do you want me to tell you I love you?" Duncan asked.

Methos gave him a look and he backed away. The older immortal walked to where the katana rested on the sofa and picked it up, turning around to where Duncan still stood against the wall. Duncan stared at him, and then down to the blade and then back up at him. There was enough of a smile that Duncan couldn't tell his intentions. He backed away as much as he could, holding his hands down low. "Joke's over, Methos," Duncan said in a low voice. "Give it to me."

Methos carefully gripped the blade, passing the handle to MacLeod, who took it, delicately, not wanting to slice open Methos' hands. Still, without fighting Methos', he let the older man guide it his neck. "You want me, you have to be willing to take my head if I'm not," he said. He released the blade with his hands, but letting the sword just sit on his shoulder. "No?" he asked.

Duncan whipped the blade away. Methos nodded. "No," he said. He took the stairs two at a time and was gone.

Three days was all it took. Duncan grabbed his jacket, feeling the extra weight, and stormed out.

He didn't knock. He kicked open the door, and stepped into the apartment. Methos stood, dressed only in his jeans but his sword was naked in his hands. "Defend yourself," Duncan said, taking off his jacket.

Methos glanced around. The apartment was not the best place for sword fighting. Duncan had to know that. Not that it lasted that long. Duncan caught his arm behind him and wrenched free the sword. When MacLeod turned around again he didn't have a weapon. He backed up against the wall.

The sword came back to Methos' shoulder, and Duncan twisted it, running it up his neck. "Do you submit?" he asked.

"No," Methos said, his eyes flashed.

Duncan cut into his neck. "On your knees," he snapped.

Methos dropped down. His eyes were unreadable. Duncan drew back his sword. For a moment, and then slightly longer, nothing was said.

"Wait," Methos finally said. "Okay."

The sword clattered down as Duncan reached down and grabbed his arms, pulling him up and against the wall again. Methos turned his head. "You said," Duncan said.

"I said a lot of things," Methos said, but didn't fight the hands on his shoulders, pushing him down to his knees. "Up, down, up, down. You ought to make up your mind, MacLeod."

Duncan didn't say anything. He didn't even pull his sweats past his hips. He pulled his cock out, angry that Methos' hair didn't give him any purchase, and then basically raped the back of his friend's throat. Methos didn't fight it, even though Duncan's width made breathing less than simple. He took Duncan's length, silently cursing as his nose banged up against MacLeod's pelvic bone. It didn't last very long. Duncan pulled away, leaving him on his knees. He looked up, wiping his own spittle among other bodily fluids from his chin. MacLeod obviously waited for him to say something, so Methos provided the only thought in his head at that time. "Gack," he said.

It was enough. MacLeod pulled his sweats back over himself, grabbed his katana and left the apartment. Methos stood up, eventually, and was very glad he had only used the deadbolt. He closed the door and chained it, turning back into the remains of his apartment. Duncan's coat lay on the back of the couch. "MacLeod," he tisked, softly. "What would Freud say?"

He started a shower, but only stood under the water until his body finally informed him that no hot water would ever come out again. He waited a bit longer, just to make sure, and then turned off the taps. It wasn't that he wasn't attracted to MacLeod, he thought as he glanced down at the semi-erection that even the blasting cold water couldn't kill. It wasn't even that he wanted MacLeod as a keeper; being friends with the Scottish lug had endangered himself in the past two years more than anyone or anything before. It was just that he couldn't...give himself over to another man like he could to a woman. He swore, mildly, and towelled off. Even if he could explain it to himself, which he couldn't, there was no way the Scot would understand. He got dressed again and went to find a bar that was still open. Only vast amounts of brain-numbing liquid could keep him from going to the barge and that was the last thing MacLeod needed today. Tomorrow, perhaps. He slipped on MacLeod's jacket, a hundred times too large. He hid his own blade, just one, in the back, and was gone.

He got back still able to walk and was feeling quite cheated because of it. He had left the door unlocked, doubting he could find a locksmith two o'clock on a Sunday morning, so when he felt the warning he slipped his blade out, feeling too drunk to give up much of a fight, and pushed the door open.

MacLeod sat on the couch. Methos dropped his sword carelessly from his fingers and shut the door again, turning his back. "Cut cleanly and spare me the hang-over," he said.

"I didn't come for your head," Duncan said. His voice was thick with exhaustion, but he sat uncomfortably.

"What did you come for, then?" he asked, turning back. He went to the frige and pulled out another beer. He didn't offer anything to MacLeod, and noticed Duncan noticing that.

"My keys are in the jacket," Duncan said.

"You didn't seem to have any problem this evening letting yourself in," Methos said.

"Not my door," Duncan stood up, and Methos almost stopped himself from backing up. He was used to being the tallest man, but Duncan was both taller and thicker. The difference was daunting after the evening they had and the percentage of alcohol in his system. He suddenly felt nervous having to look up and expose his throat, even though he had offered his head to Duncan less than twelve hours ago. He backed up against the frige as Duncan descended upon him.

For a moment he thought Duncan understood the rules of this new game. His arm was grabbed, spinning him around, and he hit his shoulder painfully against the frige. He stood where he was put, trying and failing to fight the tremors his body gave off. Duncan moved behind him, and he could feel the man's presence around him so thickly he could taste it under his tongue. Out of rage Duncan grabbed his jacket, up near the shoulders, and stripped it off him with no more protest than the silk lining against his cotton sweater. The tremors turned to shivers as the cold air touched the back of his neck.

And then...Duncan was gone. He heard the door click shut without turning around. He dropped down to his knees, but even banging his head against the frige door couldn't override the pain coming from his groin.

Self preservation made him stop, and he stood up again. His body almost didn't want to straighten up the need was that great. But he had taken care of himself before, and he limped into the bedroom, throwing himself down on the bed. "Damn you, MacLeod," he gritted, barely taking the time himself to pull clear of the jeans. He squeezed his eyes shut, opting for speed rather than enjoyment. He had been at war before. It was that thrill of the idea of making Duncan play his game, rather than any particular part of the Scot's body, that finally brought the first release. Still, when it was over, he felt cheated and slightly hollow. "And you owe me," he whispered.

There were many very important stages to war, and each one must be plotted out beforehand. He woke the next morning, showered and dressed. The slight damage behind his eyes was the hangover he had, and it was gone by the end of the shower. So was the bruise on his shoulder where MacLeod had thrown him, and he wished it remained a bit longer. It felt good to feel the ache. He wasn't a masochist...exactly, at least he didn't register the pain as pleasure, but he had learned over the past couple millennia that every response the body could give had some use.

He skipped breakfast, and drove down to the barge, wanting MacLeod to see his car if he wasn't out doing something ridiculous this early in the morning. He checked his watch. Okay, it was almost eleven.

He let himself into the barge, as always using a much more subtle technique than Duncan in everything. It was deserted, which was even better in his mind. He cursed again as he went through Duncan's foodstores, and guessed that the Scot was off hunting down food for the first time since the battle began. He didn't have much to work with, not that it mattered. He wasn't planning on bringing culinary delight into the relationship after all.

By the time he felt someone approach, the kitchen area was in enough disarray to further his plans. He didn't look up from his bowl of popcorn.

"What are you doing here?" Duncan asked, putting down the paper bags of food and ignoring the mounds of dishes dirty.

That annoyed Methos somewhat, it had taken careful planning to make that much of a mess in the time he had. He wanted it acknowledged.

"Eating," he said. He took another nibble of toast, deliberately brushing the crumbs onto the leather.

Still, no rise. He waited. "I'm glad you're here," Duncan said, finally, and began methodically cleaning up the mess.

"You are?" Methos asked, eyebrow raised, slightly. No way he would imagine Duncan caving in this early.

Duncan turned off the taps and walked to the sofa. He dusted off his seat before sitting down. Methos caught his breath trying to sneak out without permission, and all of a sudden it got stuck in his lungs. "I wanted to appologize for my behaviour. I shouldn't have forced you into anything you didn't want to do," Duncan's voice was soft, but not as soft as the hand on his thigh.

Set back. Major fucking set back. Methos pulled away like he had been hit. And then he saw it in Duncan's eyes. He was being laughed at. Not verbally, of course, but he was...amusing!....the highlander. He jumped to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Duncan asked, carefully picking up the same piece of toast he had been nibbling on and took a big bite. Methos could see the flashing of the white teeth.

"Home," Methos snapped. "I'm expecting a locksmith," he said.

He almost made it to the stairs when Duncan called him again. He turned back, almost hopeful and hated himself for it. "Don't forget your coat," was all the Scot said. The smile had left his eyes and now was dripping off his cheeks. Another moment it would be on his lips, and then that would be the end of it. Methos turned very slowly, going back to where it lay beside Duncan. The damnable Scot hadn't moved. Suddenly that put him in a great disadvantage, considering his view point. Methos grabbed his jacket, and then standing right in front of him raised his arms, which then, of course, raised his sweater. Not enough to expose flesh, of course, but enough to bring the hem up past his hips. He saw Duncan trying desperately not to look, and then give in and stare at his groin. He let the man watch, only for a second before slipping the jacket on and pulling the sweater back down.

"I won't," he said, smiling. He sauntered away, not needing to look back to know he was being stared at. Victory from the jaws of defeat. Hah.

 

MacLeod had better self control than he gave the Scot credit for. It was not like him to misjudge someone that much. For two very long days Methos stayed at his apartment day and night, expecting any minute to feel the warning, but nothing happened. He lived off of take out and delivery, and was about to consider defeat when the doorbell went off in his head. A moment later there was a knock at the door.

Duncan said nothing at the reinforced door hinges and double lock. Nothing had to be said. The highlander didn't look his best. The golden shine to his skin had paled as if he hadn't seen the sun in a week, and his eyes were tired. He held out a paper bag and the contents clanked together warmly. Methos really liked that sound. "Truce?" Duncan asked.

"Permanent or temporary?" Methos asked, leaning against the door. He hadn't asked Duncan in yet, and MacLeod's honour wouldn't let him push past. He waited.

"Tonight, to begin with."

"Agreed," Methos said, grabbing the bag from him and turned away. He pulled out first bottle and sighed at the label. This must be eating more at MacLeod than he hoped for. Truce, not disarmament. He poured them a tumbler full and then sat down, long legs stretching out. He took a sip and then rubbed the back of his neck, feeling it warm every inch inside. He sighed again.

Nothing was said for the longest time. Finally Duncan spoke. "I thought we had an agreement," he said, voice slightly plaintive.

The words hurt his head, like they always did when Duncan whined. Methos opened an eye to look at him. "We did. You broke it."

"I broke it? You're the one who won't let me touch you."

"The alleged touching isn't at fault. It is the manner in which you wished to touch me that I found to break our agreement," Methos said.

"You can't change what I am, Methos," Duncan said. His voice was stronger.

"Nor you, I," Methos said, lowering his own voice.

"What would you have me do?" Duncan demanded. "Throw you on the ground and ravish you?" he demanded.

"Ravish?" Methos threw the word back in his face. "Ravish, MacLeod, really? Do I look like a schoolgirl to you?" he demanded.

"What word would you have me use?" Duncan asked, voice almost sulking.

"Fucking has always worked," Methos said, voice like a cat. He almost purred.

"I don't take from my partners."

"And I don't give without being taken," Methos shot back.

Duncan stood up. "That's it, then."

"I guess it is," he didn't move. "Leave the bottle. You can afford it."

Duncan left in disgust. Methos threw his head back. That it didn't come in contact with anything didn't stop it from hurting. He almost had it.

 

In bed, alone, it didn't work. Methos couldn't finish the solitary act and cursed MacLeod's name. He had never had to worry about pleasing himself for so long, but the idea of getting out of bed and finding a substitute in any form or gender didn't appeal to him. He realized he was getting further and further away from the shore on this one, but couldn't stop himself. The bottom had long since dropped away and still he wasn't as lost as he could be.

It was then that he first realized that he...could...possibly...lose on this one. He, who had trained (and been trained) to accept almost everything uncomfortable that could be done to a body and live (or at least come back from) was willing to trade what he was for a bloody pig-headed child. It wasn't fair. He decided to get up and get dressed, and even got so far as to sit up before reconsidering. He threw himself back into the bed and waited long enough to make sure the new resolve in his life wasn't going to fade away. It didn't. He went back to sleep.

He woke to the feeling of something on his the back of his neck, very thin and very cold. He was careful not to sit up and check. It wasn't an immortal, nothing in his head told him that he wasn't alone in the room, except for the pimply faced boy much too young to be a watcher. Nonetheless, it was his own sword at the back of his neck.

"Lie still, mate," the boy whispered. His voice was watery like he was the one who should be terrified. "This is nothing personal. I mean..." he managed.

Methos swallowed, carefully, not letting the famous last words get to him. Unfortunately, pinned to the bed there was nothing he could do. So this was it. Spending the past month of his life in agony over someone he could have easily had only to...and then he felt it. The warning. A moment later Duncan came into the room. He held out a wad of bills Methos couldn't see how many, and dismissed the boy only after taking the blade from his hands. He passed over Methos' keys and told the boy to lock the door and slip them back into the room. He took the keys and said nothing until they could hear the scrape of the keys under the door.

"I know for a fact you took your coat with you," he said, still not moving under the sword.

Duncan's hand pressed against his the back of his head, "Do you submit?" Duncan asked.

"No," Methos said.

The sword was brought up, hovering arm's length away. Nothing was said for a moment, and then a bit longer. "Wait," Methos said. "Okay."

The sword, for probably the fifth time, clattered to the ground. It was a good thing he was not nearly as attached to it as Duncan was to his katana. Duncan pulled back the covers, and saw in the moonlight how the sweat made his skin even more pale, the slight muscles even more pronounced. "You really were scared," he said, in wonderment.

"Oh fuck yourself," Methos snapped. "You try being woken up in the middle of the night knowing you were going to die," he tried to sit up, but Duncan pushed him back so hard he heard his bones groan in protest.

"Did I say you could move?" Duncan asked, quietly.

Methos was shaking. This time in anger. But he said nothing. Duncan tried to grab hold of his hair, but his fingers were too thick to catch it for any longer than a second. It was still painful, though. Finally Duncan had to settle for pinching an ear. "Ow!" Methos protested. His head was drawn back as far as it could and not snap off as Duncan got on the bed, pulling him to his cock.

"Do a good job, it will be the only lubrication you get," Duncan snapped.

They had different opinions on that. Methos wanted, really wanted to make it as perfect as he could for his new lover, and Duncan only wanted the stone to be whetted. He was left gasping for air as Duncan pulled away and released his head. He fell against the pillows, at the same time as feeling his thighs being kicked apart. And then Duncan was behind him, over him, and after a brief moment of protest, in him. The pain was incredible, he hadn't taken a male lover since the sixties, and it almost felt like reverse childbirth. Duncan was inexperienced and clumsy, but when he hit the prostate not even his control could stop the whimper. He cried out, writhing against the bed sheets, dying for the friction, but as soon as Duncan found out what he was doing he was forced to stop. "Don't," was all Duncan whispered in his ear.

They were both so horny that it didn't last at all. Duncan let loose deep in his bowels while biting down hard at the exact same moment on his shoulder. The pain added to Duncan's hand and he came, sobbing hard. Not letting Methos recover Duncan pulled out of him almost in disgust and was pulling on his pants and heading out the door before he could even turn his head to watch.

The sound that came from his lungs sounded like it had been waiting a hundred years to escape his body. Even after he had so clearly won, he still felt even more hollow than all the nights he worked on his...strategy...alone. And he was just as sticky.

Damn.

 

He got dressed the next morning and forced himself to eat the last couple slices of stale bread that was still soft enough to bend almost without breaking. He gulped down a cup of water he couldn't wait for the taps to cool down and left the apartment, not wanting to be there if Duncan was to show up again. Part of it was, and he knew it, so that he wouldn't know for certain that the highlander didn't come. He went to dingiest antique houses he could find, knowing that the wouldn't have anything for him, but it felt good to get his hands so grimy that when he touched his skin he didn't recognize either touch as being him. He skipped lunch and grabbed dinner at a dive that would have caused a mortal worry to eat the food of. He wasn't as hungry as he thought, and the cooling grey congealing matter on his plate wasn't encouraging. He ordered bottled beer, one item that no restaurant could slaughter. He drank it, and half a dozen of its refrigerator mates before realizing how truly smashed he was. Worse yet, there was a bar opened next to it that was opened late. He went inside, and didn't emerge until late morning. Tomorrow he would see the total of the credit card slip, but it was worth the oblivion he was feeling. Unfortunately the barge was only half an hour walk/stumble. With his lowered defenses, he slowly began to realize that obsession was more than a fragrance.

MacLeod answered the door and saw the condition he was in. "You need a shower," he announced, instead of a greeting.

"Is that an invitation to bathe me, MacLeod?" Methos asked.

"You wouldn't like it if it was," Duncan said, catching his wrist. He let himself be dragged into the shower, fully clothed, and it took a long moment to realize the water striking him was freezing. He tried to jump away, but Duncan spitefully used his added weight and sober condition to keep him under the water.

"Unfair advantage," he groaned when there were reduced chances of it drowning him. Sobriety returned like an errant dog, with its tail between its legs.

"Strip."

"Oh, Duncan," Methos sighed, trying to bat his eye lashes but the eyelids were sticking to his eyeballs. The result was sadly much more comic than he could allow himself to behave.

MacLeod grabbed the front of his sweater, and he squawked in protest. "This is my favourite!" he protested.

"Then take it off."

It fell in a sodden heap by his feet.

"The jeans as well."

That was more of a challenge. He hated the feeling of wet denim, and without being told he took off his boxers. Taking off his socks almost resulted in him slipping, but Duncan was there and caught him before he managed to hit his head against anything. Looking at the highlander's face, it was probably only because he didn't want to get blood all over the fixtures. Head wounds do bleed so much.

Only when he was naked did Duncan allow for hot water. He started it gently so it wouldn't burn his chilled flesh. Once the water was up to temperature he took out the body soap and the sponge. "You can leave me now," Methos said, bitterly. "It's not like I haven't drowned before."

MacLeod's eyes were still cloudy, but it was getting harder and harder to see him with the steam. He was sober now, and feeling incredibly stupid for just showing up. "Shampoo," MacLeod continued as if he hadn't spoken. Obediently he began lathering his head. Thank god it was so short. He closed his eyes against the sting and rinsed it out. Duncan turned off the water and passed him a towel before leaving the bathroom. He returned a moment later with his own clothing, which fit embarrassingly on him. He tied up the pants until they almost were cinched in half and pulled on the sweater. Despite the fit they were warm and soft and he was beginning to feel alive again. He went into the main room and collapsed onto the sofa.

With his eyes closed he could hear the familiar clanking, and then within minutes the coffee scent reached him. He could have done without the other sounds of food preparations, but for the moment he was warm and dry and could pretend that the past few days hadn't happened.

Duncan approached him again, and without opening his eyes he held out his hand for the coffee cup. It was pressed into his palm and his fingers wrapped around it like he was a very young child. That was all right, though. He curled up on the couch and took his first sip, almost deliberately scalding his lips and the roof of his mouth. He smiled.

When he looked up again Duncan was still staring at him. "Did you want to talk about it?" he asked, quietly.

"What do you mean?" Methos said, cautiously. The happiness in behind his sternum was beginning to shrivel up.

"Why the bender?"

"Why not the bender?" he asked back.

Duncan was getting tired of his word games. He straightened up from leaning against the counter.

"Okay. Why the bender," he looked up at Duncan's eyes. "Because, it wasn't enough," he said.

"What wasn't?"

"That night. I thought it would be. I hoped it would be...but it wasn't."

"It wasn't enough?" Duncan's voice was hard and cold. The toast popped up, but neither of them stopped to mind it. "What do you mean? The next time I have to tie you up and beat you first? If that's what you want from me, Methos, that is not something I am willing to do. No matter how much you play with my head."

Methos cradled the coffee like a child against his chest. "That isn't what I mean," he looked up, suddenly very unwilling to share this. To share anything, actually. It was against his nature as much as the night had been against Duncan's. But Duncan had gone that far...he deserved nothing less.

"It wasn't enough. I didn't want your body," he put the coffee down, regretfully and stood up. Duncan's eyes clouded further as he saw him rise, but then deepened in confusion as Methos headed towards him instead of the door.

"Stop. What variation of the game is this?" he demanded.

"No variation. Not my game," Methos whispered. He stepped into Duncan's personal space, placing both hands on Duncan's chest. He could feel Duncan's heart beating at an alarming rate, and it was a very good thing the boy took such care of his body. For the first time in...he couldn't tell when he actually sought out the lips of another man. Parting his own without a struggle. Inviting someone to take him. Duncan still strained against him for a moment, waiting for the betrayal, but felt nothing but Methos' very obvious arousal against his hip. When Duncan didn't return the kiss Methos respectfully backed away. "No?" he asked, quietly.

"Not until I understand these rules as well," Duncan said.

Methos smiled, shyly, dropping his eyes. "I'm jaded, not dead, MacLeod. Please don't make me spell it out for you."

Comprehension began to sink in, but not fast enough. Methos opened his mouth, and then paused. "I W. A. N. T. Y.--" was as far as he got. Duncan took advantage of how far a mouth has to open to say the vowel 'o'. The kiss surprised him, and he took a step backwards only to have Duncan over him, running his hands over the sweat material until the heat from the friction burned. He dropped to his knees, burying his face into the man's flat belly while working on the damn tie on the sweats. He pulled them down, with a rush, but when he felt Duncan's hands over his head again he bit the fold where the man's leg attached to his trunk. "Don't. I don't like it," he said, glancing up.

Duncan touched behind his ear, once, understanding. Methos attacked, for the first time letting himself be more than a passive vassal to MacLeod. From the sounds Duncan was making it was obvious he liked the change. He worked his tongue over and under the foreskin, kissing along the length. When he finally let the whole thing in the back of his throat, he hummed a bit while swallowing, letting the man feel his muscles working. He left the cock alone for a moment, blowing on the spit to cool it down some before taking it up with both hands and began working on the balls. Sucking one, then the other through the sack. Duncan continued to beg over him, and finally he sat back, looking up at his lover's eyes and rolled the man's cock over his cheeks, feeling the silkiness over the steel.

"Fuck!" Duncan swore, jumping away. At first Methos thought he was giving a command when he smelled the ruined breakfast around him. He climbed to his feet, suddenly realizing that he was being splattered by the bacon grease. He hadn't even felt it. The bacon was nothing but black strips threatening to catch on fire and the eggs were brown where they ought to be white. For a moment nothing was said as the stove was turned off and the damage assessed.

"Would it help to say I'm not particularly hungry?" Methos asked, lounging against the counter. His arms were crossed. He was willing to give Duncan another three...maybe four seconds of clean up and then he would be forced to jump him.

"From now on, stay out of my kitchen," Duncan said, but just under the time limit. He grabbed Methos and pulled him into the bed. They fell in a tangle of legs, but Duncan managed to land on top. Methos tried to squirm away, but then found that just squirming provided enough incentive to stay under him. Duncan stopped that with a move of his hips that Methos was envious of. Of course, with the excess material off his hips from the sweats anyone could have pinned him down like that.

His sweater was grabbed and yanked off him with all the rush of the night before, but there was a difference to it. Duncan then lowered his head and kissed down the line of his belly to his own sweats, and, without letting off any of the pressure, lowered them down.

"I'm not going any where," Methos whispered. "You can get off me," he said.

Duncan looked up with very satisfied smile. It did nothing to cushion the words. "You have to prove yourself on that one, my love," he said. "I don't believe you, yet."

The feeling of a mouth on his cock made his body bend backwards like it was on the rack. His spinal cord starting from the pelvic bone to his shoulders lifted off the sheets. He thrashed around, not because he wanted to dislodge the wonderful mouth, but because it had been so long he couldn't control it. He found his mouth making the most pathetic begging sounds, and suddenly didn't want to silence it. He whimpered, whined, and when that wasn't enough, begged mostly in English.

Duncan touched the sensitive spot right behind his balls and it was over. There was an infinite moment of delirium and then nothing. He crashed back to the bed, pushing Duncan away and curled up protecting the far too sensitive member.

 

He woke realizing his head rested on someone's arm. At any other time it would have been as comfortable as using a tree-trunk for a pillow, but he quickly found the advantage of being able to dart out his tongue and lick up some of the salt from the skin. "You're awake then," a voice rumbled right next to his ear. With his back pressed up close to MacLeod's chest he could feel every step of the man's body turning the breath into the words that touched his ear.

"What time is it?" he asked, groggily.

"Almost four."

"Morning?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"No. Afternoon."

He turned around, not sacrificing any of the closeness. "Duncan?" he asked, quietly.

"Yes, love?"

"I think I want you to ravish me, now," he said with a slight smile.

end


	2. Forcing the Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sequel to Forcing the Hand and a continuation of the same thing. Boy meets boy, boy loses boy,boy tries to take other boys head...boys make up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, Methos, Duncan and the concept of Immortality belong to Panzer, Davis, Rysher Entertainment, and Gaumont Television. They have since been returned. Promise.
> 
> This is a sequel to "Forcing the Hand". You don't have to read the first part...but it would make more sense. If you haven't, it's enough to know that our boys just didn't "fall" in bed together (against Methos' refrigerator a couple times, maybe) Anyway, enjoy ;)  
> Thanks to Celina who went from morally offended by the idea or our boys together to help plotting out the future Amanda entrance in a record two days. Sadly, we do still have differing view on whom Duncan ends up with and...since it's my story... .

Methos woke up when the light filtering into the barge was still grey. His clothing had been washed, dried, and neatly folded where they could be easily reached from the bed. He sat up, alone in the room and couldn't feel anyone near him. He looked down to the empty pillow beside him and picked up a strand of black hair, winding it around his fingers a dozen times.

He picked up the clothing and threw them on the bed, but wandered naked to the shower first. His body ached, but he was disappointed to find out it was only lack of food pains that caused him the discomfort. "You're not even really hungry," he told his stomach. Immortals could be buried for centuries and pop up again, fine and dandy. Sort of a cosmic-time out.

He washed quickly and towelled dry on the way back to the bed. He pulled on his clothes slowly before going into the kitchen area.

It felt...odd for the first time to go through the barge like he had any right to do so. Not that it had stopped him before, but he didn't want to feel like a part of it any more than the couch or the bed itself. He sat down to the plate of food Duncan had set out for him without heating it up and mechanically went through it not even tasting. At the end of it the only thing that could be said was that his stomach stopped reminding him of its existence. It was enough.

He pushed away, prowling the living area before he realized what he was doing. In his disgust at himself he grabbed his coat and left the barge.

For once, he didn't feel the need to drink. Well, the need was there, but he was able to ignore it. He went instead to the library and buried himself in dead languages until the library closed. It was ten o'clock by his watch, and dark outside. He went back to his own apartment and locked the door. He needed to breathe, and that was almost impossible at the barge.

He was so tired he didn't know which came first, the buzz or the knock at the door. He rolled out of bed and pushed himself up standing to answer it. He didn't even bother with a sword. If someone else who wanted to call themselves death stood on the other side of the door he would almost welcome it rather than having to face Duncan again.

The day apart had restored much Duncan's usual energy, and as he entered the apartment. It made Methos feel even more exhausted. "Lose your way?" Duncan asked. He came into the apartment empty handed.

Methos sat down on the couch, refusing to let himself be bowled over by the man's physical presence. It didn't work much at all. It was like trying to be miserable with a St. Bernard puppy bounding around the room. "Not tonight, MacLeod," he said.

"What?" MacLeod demanded. The confusion was just setting in.

Methos looked up, tilting his head so he could still keep most of the right hand side of his face cradled in his hand. He felt the disgust inside him all again, disgust at what he had felt, how he had acted upon it, and worst of all, how much he had enjoyed it. It hurt to look at the pain in Duncan's face, so he looked back down to his feet. "Not tonight. Not ever. I made a mistake."

"You made a mistake?" Duncan demanded. Now he got the Scot angry. It helped to kill some of the personal loath he was feeling. He stood up, squaring his shoulder.

"Yes, I made a mistake," he said, enunciating very carefully. "It's happened before. You just weren't born yet," he said, letting his voice mock the man in front of him. He half smiled, thrusting his hands into his hip pocket. It was a challenge, they both knew it, but Methos knew the Scot would never act on it. He was now, in the convoluted thinking of this child before him, a possession, however cherished. This meant must be protected. It was the same reason the relationship would never work.

"And last night?" Duncan asked. Methos knees softened almost as much as his resolve when he saw the honest pain in MacLeod's eyes.

"Last night," Methos said, and again, almost flushed at the memories. "What do you want me to say? Thank you? Thank you, MacLeod. I enjoyed immensely. So did you. What did you want, MacLeod? For me to move in? Shall we send Christmas cards out together, darling boy? Shall we argue over who gets the closest parking stall? What did you want from me?" he demanded. Voice almost hoarse. He checked himself, angry that his control slipped so much. He couldn't let Duncan see the real pain.

"More than just a variation on a theme in a game," Duncan said. His shoulders were tight and for a wild moment Methos thought about throwing the man down (it could happen) and force out all the tension. But the way Duncan looked it would probably result in both his wrists getting broken and having to spend the night in to heal. He walked past Duncan and opened the door. For once he used the only argument MacLeod couldn't argue with. Silence. Duncan walked past him, stopped, and turned around three inches from his face. He could feel the man's breath on his cheeks.

"Congratulations, Methos. Game well played," he said, softly. Duncan's eyes left his own, and Methos continued staring straight ahead as he knew his face was being studied. Duncan took a step back, but it was only to bow with a slight flourish. "Who do you meet in the next round?" he asked, and was gone.

He locked the door behind him, before changing his mind. Duncan getting the last word just seemed so...wrong. He couldn't control himself. The sound of the locks flipping and flipping back made Duncan stop as the door was almost thrown off the hinges from the inside.

"If you are expecting this to be an impassioned plea you can forget it!" he snapped, slamming the door, yet again. This time the door stayed locked. For a while.

A week ago it would have taken three days to build the tension needed to do something as rash as he wanted to. But tonight it took less than three hours. He grabbed his sword, throwing it on the passenger seat and drove down to the barge.

He banged on the door. Three, four times. By the fifth his hand was beginning to hurt and still there was no answer. But he could feel MacLeod inside, the same way MacLeod could feel him outside, and he hoped Duncan respected him enough to come to the door armed.

He did. But his eyes betrayed him how glad to see that he wasn't someone else with a less personal grudge. Wrong again, bright boy, Methos thought.

"Defend yourself," he said.

The confusion made Duncan back up, which gained him access to the barge. Nor was Duncan the kind of man who would allow himself the disadvantage of having to fight down the stairs. He backed up quickly into the main room. "What is this? Act three, where you go completely insane?" he demanded. Still, the katana was pointed at him.

If, for one second, Duncan did not take the challenge seriously Methos would have pushed it to a fatal ending, one way or another. As it was, only Duncan's extreme skill kept either one of them from getting hurt. Only twice did Duncan fail to predict his moves, and the second time caught him non-seriously on the left arm. It bled for a while and then stopped without him ever noticing it. Exhaustion made him careless, and seeing the concern in Duncan's eyes made him angry. It was a very bad combination. Finally Duncan thunked (technical term--to make a thunking sound) his sword so hard the vibration off his hilt made his numbing fingers drop it. He dove for it, but Duncan kicked it out of the way. It skittered against the floor and slid half way under the couch.

Methos turned on him, but Duncan stayed between him and where it lay. "Enough?" Duncan asked.

He shook his head.

"Don't be a fool, Methos. I don't want to kill you. You know how much it hurts."

He lunged.

"For your own sake..." Duncan said, and then brought the hilt of his sword down over his head. He saw tiny yellow lights, one big red flash, and then nothing.

When he came to he could feel the pressure of a sword point against his heart, not his neck. He looked up to where Duncan stood over him. The Scot couldn't hide the concern quick enough. "Symbolic, Duncan," he groaned, pushing away the blade with his hand. He half sat up, feeling the strain on his abdomen and touched the matted, bloody hair just over his ear. It only hurt a little when he touched it, but that didn't stop him from groaning. "What the hell...why does my chest hurt? Did you kill me or what?" he asked, looking up.

"Almost," Duncan said, looking guilty. "Your heart stopped. I performed CPR," he said, blushing slightly.

"You did what?" Methos asked, sitting up all the way. He couldn't believe it.

"Get your bloody clothes off my floor. You might stain the finish."

"My bloody body is still in them. Why the hell did you do that?"

"So it would hurt less. Coming back, I mean."

Methos touched his lips. "Mouth to mouth?" he asked.

Duncan was definitely blushing. "It's in the manual."

Sitting there, on the floor of the barge with his third favourite sweater ripped and bloody, Methos started to laugh. Really laugh, for one of the first times without malice or sarcasm or any hidden agenda. That there was someone with a sword standing close enough to poke with his toe while he threw his head back and snickered would have been unthinkable a month ago, friend or not. Now it just seemed right. Duncan was still eyeing him, no doubt still playing with the theory that he really had lost his head (figuratively speaking of course) and then the first of the spasms passed across the concerned face. Soon he was laughing as hard as Methos. It continued until they were both in danger of oxygen deprivation, and then Duncan offered him his hand. "Come on, up," he said.

Methos took it, but just as Duncan was about to pull him up he kicked out, and twisted back, catching Duncan's stomach with his still booted foot. Methos flipped him over and continued with the momentum until he was sitting on the Scot's chest. "Umngh," was all Duncan said.

Methos nodded a couple of times, and then soundly boxed MacLeod's ears. "Ow!" Duncan groaned.

"That, was for almost killing me, you dog," Methos said.

"Me?" Duncan demanded. He threw himself forward and less than a moment later their positions were reversed.

"Unh," Methos let the sound escape under his breath, wincing only slightly in pain. Duncan leapt off him. Methos followed him, knocking off his balance and landing right back where they started, only higher up on his centre of gravity.

"You little fake," Duncan growled, but, pinned to where he was he couldn't move.

"Yes, I am," Methos agreed, congenially.

"So tell me what I get for letting you live," Duncan said.

Methos carefully sat back and crossed his arms across his chest. His knees still drove their way into the man's forearms, so there was no chance of an upset, and pretended to think about it. Nonetheless, Duncan tried.

Methos grabbed his wrists faster than Duncan could see him unfold. He slammed him back against the floor. "Did I say you could move?" he asked.

Duncan's groan through his clenched teeth as his shoulders hit floor again. "Nice try, my friend. But I don't buy it," Methos said, kissing the tip of his nose. Although it probably did hurt more than a little.

"Let me up," Duncan groaned.

"Why should I?"

"Because right now you have three lines of blood running half way down your cheek and the fact that I put them there is doing nothing for me."

Methos sat up, touching his cheek. Duncan pulled himself free, and Methos let him go. "Come on, to the shower." He reached down and pulled him to his feet. But then the hand stayed on his wrist.

Methos felt stubborn. He locked his legs. "Not another shower," he protested.

Duncan let him go for a moment before pulling off his sweater, and then turned around. Methos cocked his head to the side, observing what was offered. "On the other hand a shower might be nice," Methos said, reflectively.

The blood on his arm where he had been cut stuck to the sweater where it dried, and it pulled out the fine hairs that covered his arm. "Owie," he said, but more to be owlish than anything.

"You have got to stop saying that," Duncan said, taking a washcloth and washing away the blood as if the wound was still gaping. Methos looked at him, with an eyebrow raised and Duncan flushed. "Right," he said, and washed away the rest quickly. The head wound took a bit more work if only because the hairs had stuck together and pulled when trying to shampoo out. Still, Methos suffered through the indignation of having his hair washed before turning on MacLeod. "My turn."

"Oh, no," Duncan said, backing away.

"Why not?" Methos demanded.

"I want to make sure you have forgiven me for almost killing you before you touch my hair, thank you very much."

"You still don't trust me much, do you Duncan?"

"In the past twenty four hours you have slept with me, left me, and then tried to kill me. No. Not yet."

"I wasn't really trying," Methos protested. "You take too many things into consideration."

"This coming from you?" Duncan demanded.

"Bring that up," Methos said under his voice. The water started to cool off, and Methos had had enough of standing under cold water. He toweled off as Duncan grabbed him behind, still dripping wet. "You're cold," he complained, pushing away.

Duncan turned him around and kissed him. The suddenness and the strength behind it startled him. He pressed both hands on Duncan's chest, but would have killed the bastard if had been allowed to pull free.

When they finally did break free, Methos put his head on the man's shoulder trying to gasp in enough air to make up for the past couple minutes. "Dive for pearls much, MacLeod?" he asked, still feeling weak in the shoulders.

"Do I have to knock you out to shut you up?" Duncan asked, pressing a callused thumb against his cheek bones. The roughness on his skin made his cock rock hard. He parted his lips as Duncan traced a pattern down the cheek to his mouth. They circled around three times, regardless of how hard he tried to capture it. "Not yet," Duncan whispered. When he finally slipped it past his lips, Methos seized the thickest part of the callus between his teeth and bit down, hard enough not to sever through. Duncan only laughed. "Okay, okay. No waiting. But not here. Let's go back to the bed."

Methos was all for that. He perked up. Just short of the bed he drew Duncan back into another kiss, but lost interest with his mouth shortly after. He worked his way down the jawbone, down the throat, and back up again. He nibbled on the slight adam's apple, licking and rolling the flesh under his teeth. Any moment he could have really hurt his lover, and he wanted Duncan to know that. He moved down to the shoulders, and maliciously begun breaking the tiny capillaries under the skin. They blossomed forth beautiful red and purple flowers only to have Duncan's body heal the slight damage moments later. He liked this game, but could feel Duncan's restlessness. He dropped lower, sparing his nipples this time, but scratched the left one slighting with a nail for a promise. Duncan hissed at that, but there was no real pain. "Methos. Please," he managed.

Finally he knelt down, taking the man's head in his mouth. The sound Duncan made muffled behind his fist was one of pain, and suddenly he stopped with the games. He lapped at the head long enough to spread the fluid already gathered. Duncan reached over to the bedside table and pulled out a tube of lubrication. Methos got off his knees, but was thrown onto his back. A moment later Duncan was over him again. He felt the hand on his back of the thigh, lifting it up as he was entered. He threw his head back, instinct taking over for an instant as he tried to get away from the pain. And then it was over. At least the pain was. Methos threw his head back, feeling Duncan's hand on his throat, feeling it work down to his shoulders before finally finding purchase burrowing into his collar bone for control. The pain was exquisite, and he kissed his way down the arm Duncan gripped the edge of the bed with. He pressed his cheek against the hot skin, feeling the blood working its way through the veins. Duncan bit him on the back of the neck, not hard enough to hurt but enough to send him into spasms. The hand on his collar bone worked down between his body and the sheets, and then it was around him. He bucked, surprising Duncan with its strength and bit down hard on the inside of Duncan's elbow.

He could feel Duncan's mouth working through his hair before finding the sensitive spot right behind his ear. He flicked it, twice with his tongue, before nuzzling with his lips. It was enough. Methos couldn't control his own shuddering as he came, and the contractions in his body sent Duncan off. They fell asleep still entwined.

Methos woke first, and stretched out his body as much as he could. The kinks in his back and neck worked themselves out and he reached down to find his jeans only to remember they were still in the bath. He got up, sliding free more than actually standing up and padded softly to the other room.

When he returned Duncan was beginning to wake up, and he sat down on the bed to watch. When Duncan finally opened his eyes, Methos smiled. "Good morning," he said.

Duncan's eyes flicked to his half dressed state. "Going somewhere?" he asked.

Methos shook his head. "Not particularly, no."

"Are you sure?"

"For now."

He waited. Duncan waited The silence grew heavier and louder by the second. "What," Duncan finally said.

"I think it's only fair that the murderer should have to cook the murderee's breakfast," Methos said.

"And that's it?"

"Duncan, that's it," Methos whispered, touching his cheek. Duncan turned to it like a child and closed his eyes. For a moment he felt every bit as old as he was. It wasn't like him to offer comfort like that to his male partners, but then he had never had a male lover before. It made a difference.

When Duncan opened his eyes again he was again in control of himself and his emotions. "Right, then," he said. He got up, leaving Methos on the bed. Methos followed him to the kitchen area. There was a lot that still had to be talked about and worked on, but for the morning he was content just to read the paper unfolded on the floor while Duncan made a much more controlled breakfast.

After Methos nibbled off the last of the toast that had touched the butter and poured himself another cup of coffee, Duncan pushed his plate away. "I have to go out," he said, finally.

Methos looked up, waiting. "I want you to be here when I get back."

"Not like the old days where you could buy shackles almost anywhere, is it, MacLeod?" Methos asked, raising the coffee to his lips but not drinking.

"You know what I mean," Duncan said.

Methos was impressed yet again by his control. "I know what you think you mean. The answer is, I don't know. And I will not register my flight plan with you every time I step out of your eye sight," he said, and then softened. "But if I do plan to go out I will also plan to come back. Is that enough?"

Duncan nodded, standing up. Methos went back to his coffee and didn't turn around as Duncan dressed behind him. He could feel the man's displeasure almost as distinct as his presence in his head. Duncan was almost at the door when he found himself saying the man's name.

"What," Duncan said, turning around.

Methos put down his coffee cup. He stood up, walking straight to Duncan and without warning kissed him. He could still taste the bacon as well as other, more unique tastes of the man. When he pulled away he gave up a little more of himself and found it didn't hurt at all. "I have some things to do myself," he said, meeting Duncan's eyes for the first time. "But I'll be back by seven. I promise."

The relief in MacLeod's eyes made him feel even more lost, but only in a warm, happy place. He reached up and touched the hair tie, before tangling his fingers in the black curls. Duncan caught his hand, kissing the first knuckle. "Thank you," he said.

A few minutes to seven by his watch, Methos let himself into the barge. It was dark inside as he stepped off the last step. "Here's a hint," he called out to the seemingly empty room. "You and I cannot play hide-and-go-seek very well."

"And you take all the fun out of life," Duncan said, lighting the first of the candles. Methos looked at the carefully set table and then back to Duncan.

"Someone has to," he said, suddenly not feeling as ridiculous with his own presents. He dropped them and covered them with his coat before stepping to where he could be clearly seen. "Well, well, well," he said, picking up the bottle of wine.

Duncan took it from him. "With dinner," he said, firmly. "There are beer in the frige if you are thirsty."

Methos turned away to collect one. The bottle was placed back on the table, but as Methos moved in to Duncan's space again for a kiss he was firmly, yet gently, rebuffed. "After dinner," he said.

"But--" Methos began to protest, but Duncan pressed against his lips.

"After."

"I don't like this new you," Methos said, muffled by the finger.

"You will," was all Duncan said. He was kissed, but chastely on the forehead before being let go.

His appetite was gone, but he had to match the smug Scot mouthful by mouthful, pretending he could last out as long. The pasta was excellent, yet he tasted none of it, and the wine was sublime, but it could have been water for all the rich oakness he didn't appreciate. The beer sat forgotten collecting moisture from the air. Finally Duncan announced the meal over. "What, no dessert?" Methos asked, eyebrow not the only thing half raised.

"Oh, there's dessert," Duncan said, standing up. Methos mulishly stayed seated.

It seemed to amuse him even more. "Are you asking me to pick you up and carry you to the bed?" he asked.

Methos immediately stood. "That would go too far," he said.

"Would it?" Duncan asked, taking a step forward. Methos, accurately, assessed the threat and jumped back.

"You wouldn't," Methos said, and then only a quick dart kept him out of Duncan's arms. He turned and ran, jumping over the sofa. With it between them he carefully circled away. "See?" he asked, voice almost pleading. "Here I am, going to the bed. You don't have to--" it was all he could get out. Duncan grabbed him, picking him up over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. He was carried, kicking and screaming, to the bed, and then thrown down, landing hard. Duncan was over him in an instant. Methos crawled back as much as he could, pressing his own finger against the man's lip. "Wait, wait just a second. If this relationship is going to work there has to be no more picking up and throwing of the other person-- Ouch!" he finished as Duncan bit him. "And no more biting!"

"None?" Duncan asked, eyes shining.

Methos felt himself caving in. "Almost none," he relented.

Duncan kissed him. "Oh, all right," he sighed. He reached back, madly going through the drawer of the bed side table to find the tube of lubrication. He applied it, grinning as he almost did it too well and Duncan's cock was jerking against him almost as violently as his lips were.

"Continue that and you are the only person who loses," Duncan whispered in his ear.

Methos saw his point. He returned the kiss, working his own slippery hands over the man's back, suddenly fighting the urge to cut his name onto the beautiful back. A moment later Duncan was against him, and then inside him, and then nothing else mattered. Unlike the first times, there was no combativeness to the lovemaking. No bites, no bruises. Just...shared pleasure. Methos caught the breath briefly with his vocal cords and the new sound escaped the same throat Duncan was kissing. Their fingers were entwined, and in any other circumstance he would have complained at the strength his hands were gripped, but the slight pain kept him focused on the pleasure.

He went off first, his cum acting as more lubricant between then. He kissed Duncan, capturing his mouth at the exact moment Duncan came inside him, and he swallowed the man's whispers willingly. It took a long time to come down, and a long time after his body would let him move, he didn't, preferring instead to watch Duncan sleep. But he had his own gifts to give, and he slipped out of bed to gather them up.

Duncan woke up after he had left the bed. He had pulled himself up to his elbows, which was more than Methos had been able to do. "Going somewhere?" he asked, again.

The lack of faith stung somewhat. He sat down, next to him. "Not exactly," he said. He put the two carefully wrapped presents on the man's chest. "Open this one first," he said, pointing to the smaller one.

Duncan did, still not fully understanding. He picked up the chain, and the key dangled between them. "Your apartment?" he asked.

Methos gripped the key for a second before letting it swing free. "Only next time come alone, huh?" he asked.

Duncan smiled at that. Methos kissed him, quickly. His hand dropped down to the second present. "Just don't expect me to use my real name," he said.

Duncan opened it and laughed. "Where the hell did you find Christmas cards in August?"


	3. Biting the Hand that Feeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The honeymoon is over and the truth hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Methos, Duncan and the concept of Immortality belong to Panzer, Davis, Rysher Entertainment, and Gaumont Television. They have since been returned. Promise.
> 
> Sequel to "Giving the Hand Away". Thank you, Olympia, for everything! You are the greatest.

Methos felt the warning going off in his head. He sat up, not knowing where his sword was. It had been under the couch. He began groping for his jeans, falling out of bed. It took Duncan a moment longer, but he wasn't at all concerned.

"Relax, it's by your jacket," Duncan said, getting dressed more slowly. "It's probably just Richie."

"It's not Richie I am worried about. It's the little friend he brings out at parties," Methos snapped. He swore, not being able to manage the denim in the half dark and his nerves. He finally managed them over his hips and done up. He jumped up, grabbing a sweater and ran to where his jacket lay.

"Duncan?" Richie called, stepping into the main room. He saw the two of them reading on the couch.

"Richie," MacLeod said, putting his book down. Methos grabbed it quietly and shoved it under the seat. He didn't know if Duncan could read Greek, but it looked suspicious to him. Duncan crossed the room, taking Richie by the shoulder. "What are you doing here?"

Methos put down his book to watch carefully. Richie and he did not get along well, but he would never think to call the boy stupid.

"I was in Paris and I thought..." Not even Duncan's body could shield Richie from most of the physical evidence in the room. The dinner from last night was still set out, and the candles had burned down to nothing. Both plates were empty, but there were two half drunk glasses of wine at the edge of the plates. Worse, Methos' half drunk beer, now warmed to room temperature had a ring of condensation around it on the white table cloth. He didn't want to look to the bed, but saw both indentations on the pillows. Richie took this all in, but didn't say much about it. "Hot date last night, Mac?" he asked, going to the table and picking up the wine. "Wow, is Amanda back in town?" was all he said. He poured himself a glass and sat down beside Methos.

"What are you doing here, Richie?" Duncan asked.

"Is there a problem, Mac?"

"No problem. Methos just came up early to practice and we haven't eaten yet."

"Methos? Practice? I don't believe it. Where's Amanda?"

"Not in Paris."

"MacLeod," Richie said, but he was smiling. He glanced to Methos. "Was she pretty?" he asked.

"Passingly," Methos allowed.

"Where'd she go?" Richie said. He still didn't see anything out of the norm.

"She didn't spend the night," Duncan said.

"Well, that has to be a first," Richie said.

Richie also didn't notice the tightness that suddenly appeared in Methos' shoulders. He bit his lip, but that couldn't control the words either. "More so than you know," Methos muttered.

"You were here?" Richie asked, mishearing him.

"It was a regular party, kid," Methos said.

"And I wasn't invited?" Richie demanded.

"Not your kind of party."

"Afraid of the competition?"

"Not hardly."

"Methos has to go now," Duncan said, jumping in. His face was tight with concern, and Methos knew it wasn't directed at him. That was the worst part.

"But Duncan. We haven't practiced yet," he said, voice like quick-silver. It slid out.

"We have been practicing enough, lately."

"I'll remember you said that," Methos said.

Richie interrupted. "I liked it a whole lot better before him and his mouth showed up," he complained.

"Duncan has had no problems with my mouth," Methos snapped.

"You really have to go, Methos," Duncan said, taking a step towards him.

"Do I really?" Methos asked. .

"Methos, go," Duncan ordered.

"With you it's always coming and going. I'm sick of it," Methos dropped his voice low enough to almost caress. He was rewarded by seeing Duncan's ears go slightly red.

It wasn't enough, though. He went to the table and picked up the half bottle of beer. Methos took a sip, made a face and pressed it into Duncan's hand. "Much better last night," he said.

"What happened last night?" Richie asked, and then the blue eyes opened and then suddenly narrowed.

"Well, first we--" Methos began.

Duncan grabbed his shoulder. "Ow! I was talking," Methos protested.

"Nothing that had to be said. Go. Now," Duncan said.

"All right. My work here is done," Methos said, and left. On the way up the stairs he could hear the argument continue.

"What were you thinking?" Richie demanded.

"You weren't here. You don't know," Duncan's voice was old.

"Thank god for that," Richie continued. It was the last thing Methos heard.

 

Duncan let himself into the apartment. Methos didn't look up from the bed. Duncan sat down next to him, easily working his sweater up over his shoulders. "Don't," Methos said.

"Why not?" Duncan asked, leaning forward and kissed his shoulder blades.

"Because...oh," Methos whispered. "What did your young student have to say?" he asked.

Duncan stopped moving his hands over his back. "Nothing positive."

"You expected otherwise?" Methos asked. "Richie is such a product of his century."

"Methos, stay off him. He's not your business. And if you hadn't goaded him on, he might have taken it a bit better. "

"Duncan, that wasn't goading. When I goad someone you will see the difference. Besides, I wasn't planning on getting on him. But thanks for that wonderful image," he said.

Duncan couldn't tell he was joking. Methos waited a few more moments before rolling onto his back. "Kidding, MacLeod. I was just kidding."

"Don't kid about Richie."

Methos saw the real concern in Duncan's eyes, and he sighed. "I won't," he said. He reached up and touched Duncan's cheek. "Who takes care of you?" he asked.

Duncan caught his hand. "What do you mean?"

"I mean who takes care of you like you try to take care of everyone else?"

Duncan didn't answer him, and when the silence continued Methos suddenly felt clumsy. He looked up, but the Scot wasn't looking at him. There wasn't anything that fascinating about his wall. Methos rolled onto his belly again and throttled his pillow into submission. Duncan stayed with him, stroking the back of his neck which calmed him right down. He reached up and began stroking the man's thigh, asking permission to move more familiarly. When he heard Duncan's sigh, he smiled. It didn't take that much energy to shift his weight up another half foot and took Duncan in his mouth. Under the gentle suction he managed to bring the man to an erection, and by barely moving his mouth up and down continued it. Duncan threw his head back, and without looking Methos could feel the muscles clenching as he tried to control his response. It didn't work. Methos swallowed what was offered and then turned his head back to the pillows. Duncan left him sleeping.

When he woke up again the guilt was waiting for him along with the half darkness in the bedroom. Sleeping in the old clothes made him sticky, and he stripped off before having a shower and getting changed. He walked rather than drove down to the barge.

He kept trying to push the relationship up another layer, and knew if he tried it Duncan would balk and break like any green-horse. As much as Duncan hated his sarcasm, it was the only thing he could handle. Naked emotion would only scare him further away, and he bit back the words he wanted to say.

 

A few days later he returned to the barge after another day at the library. He wanted a shower and then a nap and then...well...Duncan.

The barge was dark again. He smiled and stepped off the last step. "I thought we had this conversation last time," he called out.

The lights came on, but it wasn't Duncan standing by the switch. Methos and Amanda both jumped. "Methos, I'm sorry, did you and Duncan have something planned tonight?"

He looked at her, and felt sadness. There was no way Duncan would ever choose him over her if they were standing beside each other and the realization hit hard. He shrugged. "It's more of a standing invitation," he said, dismissively. "I'll leave you alone."

"Don't be silly. What ever it is I'll come with you. There's enough here for the three of us."

"I think not," Methos said. They both felt Duncan approach. MacLeod stepped down into the barge and looked at them. "Amanda...what are you doing here?" he asked.

"Richie told me you needed me."

Methos face went pale. The next time he saw the kid, Duncan's aegis or not, they were going to have words.

"Richie was mistaken, Amanda," Duncan began, delicately.

Methos had enough of this; he didn't need to go through another scene like the one with Richie. "Enjoy your evening, MacLeod," he said, He was very glad he hadn't even taken off his coat. "I should get going."

"Come on, Methos. It's not like you don't practically live here," Amanda teased. "I saw most of your things on the bathroom counter."

Duncan was very careful not to look at him. He recognized the shame on his lover's face and didn't want to be there. Methos climbed the stairs, but his departure didn't go unnoticed. "Where are you going?" Amanda demanded.

He turned around, not willing to go through another scene like the one with Richie. "To the door. And then outside the door. And then off the barge," he said.

"Let him go, Amanda," Duncan said.

Methos turned to MacLeod, searching his face. Duncan's mouth was tight, and his eyebrows had a line between them. But he wasn't looking at Methos, and that hurt. Amanda glanced back to Methos, eyes triumphant. "He's already gone," she said, turning her back.

Methos proved her right. For a moment he considered slamming the door, and then didn't like the idea of giving her that satisfaction either. He started the Volvo, feeling sick.

An hour later he was back at his place. He locked both dead bolts, but Amanda was a cat thief. After he drew the chain he dragged a chair up under the door knob and waited.

He was almost relieved to hear the knock. It meant that she hadn't killed Duncan and taken his key. Of course it could also be a ploy. He kept his sword out and waited.

The pounding didn't go away. "Methos, I know you're in there. God damn it, let me in!" Amanda called.

Methos stood up and went to the door. "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin- chin," he said, but his heart wasn't in it.

"I just want to talk!"

"I believe you. Go away."

She banged on the door again. "We both know I can get in there if I wanted to. I just want to talk. Please, Methos," she said. The last couple words were almost spoken.

He began to relent. "Slide your sword under the door half way and move it under the knob," he called out. A moment later she obeyed and he carefully stepped on the blade before removing the chair from under the knob. He unlocked both dead bolts and took the chain off. His sword was at the level her head would be if she was bent down to pick it up. She wasn't. He slid the sword to him, and without taking his blade off her he bent down and picked it up. Now he had both blades. He backed away and let her into the apartment. "How do I know you won't take my head now?" Amanda asked before stepping in.

"I kill you and Duncan takes my head," Methos said. "Either way I'm dead." He looked at her. "You won't mind bending over for me, I hope," he said.

"Bend over?" she asked, eyebrows almost touching.

"May I say that is a very nice jacket you are wearing. I want to see it follow the line of your back. If you don't mind."

She did so. If she was wearing a second blade it wasn't immediately visible. Methos nodded and turned around putting both blades in the fridge, shutting it firmly with his hip. "All right?" he asked.

"All right," Amanda said.

They stared at each other for a long minute. "Sit down?" he asked, suddenly the concerned host.

She did so. He dragged the chair that had been blocking the door and straddled it backwards. "I'd offer you something cold to drink, but..." he said. He looked over to the refrigerator and she waved him off.

"Of course," she said, nodding slightly. Silence again. She took the time to look over his apartment and her lip curled in slight disgust. "You really are a pig, Methos," she said.

He refused to get defensive. "So?" he asked.

"I don't know what he sees in you, but I do know that it wasn't his idea."

"Do I look like I could force myself, Amanda?" he asked, waving his hands to illustrate his point. She looked over him again. "Believe me. He's a big boy. He made his own choices," Methos said. Sort of. He wasn't even kidding himself. He stood up, but kept away from the half of the room with the fridge.

"What I want to know is why," she said.

Methos shrugged. "Once you learn the breaststroke, the front crawl is the next logical step," he said.

"But you hate the water," she said.

"I didn't say the analogy was perfect," he said, and then sighed. "You've returned, he'll go back to you. No damage has been done. He's yours."

She stood up as well. "As long as that is agreed on."

He half nodded. Really it was nothing more than a slight bow of the head. Of defeat. Of submission. He hated himself, but he did it any way. He even backed away a little more and did nothing as Amanda retrieved her sword. She slipped it back inside her coat, and then crossed the room to him. "If you had looked carefully enough, dear boy, you would have seen my name on him. Next time, make the extra effort." She patted him on the cheek, and he wondered how long she would take to heal from a broken neck. "Get out of town, Methos. I don't care where you go. Get out and stay out. There is nothing for you any more," she said, not aware of his murderous thoughts. He let her go unmolested out of his apartment.

Bitch! He picked up the chair he was sitting on and he threw it across the room. It hit the wall, making a dent and chipping the paint. He then kicked the shit out of his couch until it was nothing but splinters, foam and springs. It took much more energy than he thought to reduce it into the sizable rubble heap and when he threw himself back against the wall it hurt more than he was prepared for and he muffled another curse. Then he couldn't control it. It came out as a myriad of the choicest phrases he could remember. When that failed to calm him down he hugged his knees to his chest and pressed his forehead against the flats of his kneecaps. The tightness in his chest didn't go away with the pressure, but it didn't get any worse. When he looked up again he bit his lip as he saw his couch, and shook his head. It would take time and money to clean it up and replace it, and he didn't want to spend either. "This is what you have reduced me to, MacLeod," he said, standing up. He was tired and he needed something to drink. The only thing in his refrigerator, beside his sword, of course, was a bottle of water and a half eaten grapefruit. He picked up the blade, swearing as the chilled metal pressed from his shoulder blades to the small of his back. It was punishment for his attachment.

He left the car knowing that he would be in no condition to drive it home. He went to the one that was open the longest and sat down, ordering a shot and a glass to start out with. They were both cheap, but the results were promising.

Not that he had much of a chance to enjoy the chemical buzz, because a real one overrode it an hour later. He looked up, expecting against logic to see Duncan standing up taking most of the door frame, but it was someone else entirely. Someone he didn't recognize. He looked away, quickly, but it was too late to have much of a crowd, and everyone else looked too pathetic to be immortal and drinking out this late. The new guy came straight to his table. "May I sit down?" he asked, already sliding into the chair.

Methos waved away permission and ordered another beer. "I haven't seen you around. New, are we?" the blond asked. He was shorter than Methos, but stockier. His face was actually more pointed which gave him a rodent like look. His eyes were grey, and as he leaned against the back of his chair Methos heard the sound of metal against metal with only a layer of cloth between them.

"Not exactly. I'm just seldom seen," Methos said, carefully.

"There are advantages to that, I suppose. But then you will never build up a name for yourself."

"I don't suppose I ever will," Methos said. He waited.

"Do you dance?"

"Not if I can help it."

"But can you dance."

"I suppose I've had a few lessons."

"By any one I would know?"

Methos bowed his head, slightly.

The conversation stopped as they felt another. Both turned to the door as Duncan did appear. Methos almost sighed in relief. "Duncan," he called, even though it wasn't necessary. Duncan headed over.

"Is that--" the man said. His face paled. "Is he your dance instructor?"

"I wouldn't say that. Dance partner would be a better term."

The boy glanced up as Duncan reached the table. "Who is this?" he demanded.

"He didn't tell me his name," Methos said. He glanced over to the stranger. "Or did you?"

The blond stood up. "No. No I didn't."

Methos stood up as well. "But you did ask me to dance. Or did I take that wrong as well? Because we could go outside...I'm sure Duncan wouldn't mind waiting."

"No! I won't take a moment more of your time. Good-night, gentlemen." His blond head was out the door before Duncan claimed his seat. "Problems?"

"Nothing that using your name didn't cure. What do you want, MacLeod?" he asked. The beer had arrived without him noticing it and he took another long drink. He was still a little shaky from the visit, and his nerves couldn't handle being this close to someone else's property.

"To make sure your head is still on your shoulders, for one. I've been looking everywhere for you. When I saw your apartment I thought...maybe..." MacLeod wouldn't finish.

Methos finished the glass, barely able to refrain from slamming it down. "I may not have much of an ego, MacLeod, but there is one time that I do insist on being the centre of attention. I don't do couples, darling. And Amanda made it perfectly clear where you stand."

"Amanda and I are no longer together," Duncan said. "The last time was the last time. I thought...I thought you knew that."

Methos swallowed. For all the liquid he had consumed his mouth was suddenly very dry. "We never talked about...commitment, MacLeod. You have never even said you love me."

"I did too! Do you remember the first time?"

"Which one? There has been so many firsts between us."

"The one where you told me I would have to take your head if you wouldn't," Duncan said. His face was getting redder by the moment.

"You merely asked me, and I do remember clearly, if I wanted you to say it. It's not the same thing."

"Well...you have never told me you loved me, either."

Methos took his lip between his teeth. He savored the sudden pain and sucked back his own blood to centre himself again. He finally looked back at MacLeod. "All right then. I love you."

"No word games?"

"None," Methos looked up. His eyes felt suddenly very vulnerable as if Duncan could look into them and see everything about him. And that was truly terrifying. That was the last thing he wanted to have happen. He waited.

Duncan took his hand in his own. He could feel the man's heat over his skin. "Why didn't you clarify this earlier?" he asked softly.

"A couple reasons. Do you want them both?"

Duncan nodded.

"Because...to begin with, if you rid yourself of Amanda because she stole a little bit of money I couldn't imagine you wanting to be around me and...my past. That has always been the least of my crimes. You and I both know that."

Duncan nodded. "That's fair, I suppose," he said. "And the second?"

Methos took a full breath, and then let himself speak. "The other reason is because I have never had to say it to a man. It...wasn't that kind of relationship. They didn't want to love me. They didn't want my love. They wanted my obedience and my...and my body, MacLeod. I gave them both and it was enough. When it was over it was over and I walked away. I didn't think I could love a man."

Duncan finally nodded. "You're absolutely right," he said.

Methos stood there, frozen in his feet. His body felt like someone turned him to stone and then found the one flaw that would crack him into a hundred thousand little pieces. "I--" he tried. It didn't work. He remembered to close his mouth.

Duncan finally grinned. "You're speechless. I never thought it would happen. You're absolutely right, Methos. On both counts. But all it means is that I finally get to teach you something," Duncan grabbed his other hand and forced him to sit. His body bent down without him being aware and suddenly he was looking in Duncan's eyes. "I love you. I don't know when it started, but I love you."

"Duncan," Methos said, ever so quietly. "Kiss me quickly and then run. Because when I catch up with you I am going to dig into your chest until I pull out your heart and then...and then, my love, I am going to wait for you to revive and force you to eat it. I am going to tie your lungs into knots. I am going to rip out your liver and beat it with a broomstick. I'll sell your gallbladder to herbalists. I--" Duncan caught his mouth, and so didn't hear his plans for the Scot's kidneys or spleen.

"And then I'll--" he began again, before the second kiss started. Methos quit speaking as his tongue was needed for more important things than just forming words. Duncan broke off, still pressing his forehead against Methos'. "Nothing about my manhood?" he asked, smiling slightly.

"No..." Methos said, quietly. "I think I want to keep that intact. And attached. For now."

"Am I forgiven?"

"You are so close. I mean it's almost there."

Duncan suddenly realized they were still in the middle of the bar. It was almost five o'clock in the morning and none of the few patrons remaining noticed them, but suddenly he wanted to be alone with Methos. He stood up. "Let's continue this somewhere else."

"I'm for that," Methos said, standing up. "But we have to make a stop first."

"I have enough to drink back home."

Methos smile was only slightly disturbing. "I should hope so. This is much more...personal."

Duncan stopped in front of the store and left Methos wondering how the hell he was going to get through the door. "Absolutely not."

Methos exhaled sharply through his nose. "Come on, Duncan, It's not like I have initials, plural," he said. "One little 'M'. I could be asking for 'Property of Methos formally known as Adam Pierson', you know."

"But they are so...permanent," Duncan was beginning to whine.

Methos glanced down at his own wrist. It was enough. "And you owe me," he said.

"For what?" Duncan demanded, but then pressed his hand against Methos' mouth as it opened. Duncan's huge hand effectively gagged the lower part of his face, but nothing could hide the glint in his eyes. "I don't need a list. If it will make you happy, I'll do it," Duncan said.

Duncan permitted him to peel away the hand. "It would make me exceptionally happy," Methos said. "I get to choose where."

"You are pushing it, Methos."

Methos suddenly moved into his space. "Am I? Really?" he asked, blinking innocently. "Where am I pushing it to? How long will it take to get there?"

"Away. Get away from me," Duncan said, and to get away from him, Duncan entered the shop. Methos could see his reflection in the glass for a moment, and there was a slight smile on his face. When Methos followed him in, the smile was gone and the serious mask was back.

Methos wanted the tattoo on the flat plane that stretched over his pelvic bone just where the belly turned into something more interesting. The artist listened carefully, and then nodded. "Simple. Ten minutes, tops," the man said. He was older than Methos expected to be, but as he set up the needle gun he was surprised to see how little the hands shook. Duncan took being handled much better than Methos thought he would, and hardly grimaced at all as the needle danced over, and under his skin. He bled, but luckily it only took about eight minutes to finish the beautifully scrawled M that now graced his hip. "You'll need rubbing alcohol for the first two weeks to make sure it doesn't get infected. The bruise should go away in a couple of days," the artist said, taping a bandage over it.

Duncan thanked him, but assured the man they had enough supplies at home. When Duncan got off the couch he was limping, but by the time Methos paid the pain was gone from his eyes. "You. Wait until we get home," Duncan whispered, menacingly.

The artist glanced over the both of them. "Are you M?" the man asked.

Methos drew himself to full height, but standing next to Duncan it still looked kind of silly. "In fact I am," he said.

The man smiled at him. "Nice," was all he said.

Duncan grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the shop.

 

Amanda listened to the spy's story and paid him well for it. She would have liked to know which one of them marked themselves, but considering the conversation earlier she could easily guess. Now the two lovebirds were back in the barge, and they would probably stay until morning.

She should have taken the little bastard's head long ago, but the circumstances had never really come up before. There was that once, of course, but she had honestly thought that Methos...but that was before.

The one Methos had annoyed earlier was in another bar, still nursing a drink even though it was almost six. She went to him.

He glanced up as she entered. He wasn't as young as he first looked. She would definitely put him at Duncan's age. She sat down beside him, ordering a coffee. "I didn't say you could sit down," he said, looking back down.

"An oversight on your part, I must say. What's a matter, darling? Couldn't find any one to play with tonight?"

"Is that a challenge?" his grey eyes met hers and Amanda quickly threw her hands up.

"From me? No. Mais non. Fighting is something I'll leave to you boys. I trust you remember the ones."

"You want me dead, honey?" grey eyes swept his eyes over her, and she did nothing but smile a bit wider. "Fight Duncan MacLeod and watch them bury my head in a bag beside me. No thank you."

"You don't understand. MacLeod is off limits. It's the other one I am willing to give you."

"Great. Another student. No, thank you. Let that one age another couple centuries and then we will talk."

"No, honey. You really don't understand. You fell for his boyish charm. Not that I blame you, he has had five thousand years to perfect it. You didn't stand much of a chance. None of us young ones really do."

That caught his attention. "Five thousand?" he asked, leaning forward.

She leaned in as well. Their foreheads were almost touching. Almost, not quite. "Five thousand," she repeated. "His quickening would...his quickening would make any man your equal."

He laughed, thinking about it. Two short barks. "What about you?" he asked.

Amanda took his hand. Feeling for the familiar calluses. Definitely older. "MacLeod is off limits," she said, drawing patterns on his palm. She looked up at him and smiled, sweetly. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Canten. Yours?"

"Amanda. Darling. Is it agreed?"

"Is what agreed?"

"You take the old one's head, and you leave Duncan alone."

"The man who takes Duncan MacLeod's head--" Canten began.

Amanda kissed his cheek so quickly that Canten lost his place. She continued his thought for him. "Will be never welcome in my bed," she said, standing up. "Methos is old and careless. He hardly takes a blade everywhere he goes. Duncan won't involve himself as long as it is a proper challenge, so make sure you don't bring any extra toys along with you that might break the rules.

Canten rose half out of the chair. "I don't fight like that," he protested.

"No? Well, be careful then, because Methos won't hesitate to. Don't forget his name," she kissed his forehead as she went to stand.

"How will I find you?"

"Afterwards you won't need to. I'll find you, darling," she said. And with that she was gone.

 

Methos made it half way back to the barge before the problem that was bothering him worked itself out in his head. The relief that Duncan was going to invite him and not Amanda back into his bed was calming, but the second issue suddenly stabbed its way through the subconscious. "Tell me something, Duncan," he asked, after Duncan realized he had stopped walking in the alley. "Was the break-up clean?" he asked.

"Do you want a monetary estimation?" Duncan asked.

"That bad?"

"I've had better."

"So she was angry."

"Of course she was angry, Methos. But she will, eventually...she wouldn't do that," Duncan said, quickly.

Methos didn't look up. He didn't say anything either.

"Methos, this woman and I have been friends for the past three hundred years."

"Tell me when you start comforting me, Duncan. Thus far it isn't working."


	4. The Claws That Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos's day continues to get worse as he realizes there is only one decision to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Methos, Duncan and the concept of Immortality belong to Panzer, Davis, Rysher Entertainment, and Gaumont Television. They have since been returned. Promise.
> 
> Sequel to "Biting the Hand that Feeds". Thank you, Olympia, for everything! You are the greatest.

Duncan rested his head on his arm, drawing the sunbeam to outline the perfect arch of the muscle on his upper arm. Methos pulled himself to a sitting position on the bed to give him a better vantage point of his lover. The rose-tinted sunlight was much kinder on Duncan's darker skin than his own, and Methos idly traced a line down the man's chest to his belly. Despite the fact that Duncan still feigned sleep he could feel the involuntary quivering of the muscles under his palm.

With only his finger tips he traced out the beautiful M marking Duncan's body. It was done in varying shades of brown so that it looked like it came from Duncan's own skin rather than any outside markings. He placed his hand over it, feeling the femoral artery under his fingers. The pulse was slow but strong. Methos smiled at that. There was no way anyone could convince Duncan's body to let them have another go. They both were exhausted.

But too exhausted to sleep. Duncan finally opened his eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

He did, but Duncan wouldn't hear him without passing judgement. He loved the man but still couldn't trust him completely. "No," Methos said, snatching back his hand, guiltily.

"Methos?"

Methos stood up. "I am going to spend the night at my place."

"Your place is in ruins."

"I know. I ruined it," he groped around for his jeans.

"Stay. Don't run away."

"Why did you chose me?" he asked.

Duncan pulled away, Methos' voice hurt. "I told you. I loved you."

"You love Amanda as well."

"I am with you now." Duncan sat up, grabbing his arm.

Methos glanced down to his hand, and then to the M on his hip. He half smiled, and kissed Duncan on the forehead. "You have to learn to let me go, Duncan. Or someday I won't come back," he whispered.

Duncan's hand pulled away. "Bright boy," Methos kissed him again, reaching for his sweater. "I'll bring a late lunch. You just bring this," he said, his hand tracing out the M one last time.

The Scot didn't look convinced. Methos kissed his forehead. "I'll be back by four o'clock. Relax. If I really was leaving I'd give myself a much longer head start."

Duncan wasn't watching him leave the room, and Methos made a mental note to stop joking about such matters. His sudden mood swing confused him as well. Methos sighed, climbing up the stairs tiredly. He didn't understand it either. He had spent most of the morning under and beside Duncan, who had accepted him and still loved him. It should have been bliss. Why, then, couldn't he breathe?

 

The morning was uncommonly warm, and he left the car where it was to walk home instead. He was more than half way there when he heard the footsteps following him. He touched his wallet through the pocket, already resigned to losing the few francs he had, when he felt the presence in his head. He broke into a sprint, making it to the bridge's guardrail before hearing his name. His real name. He turned around.

It was the blond again. And his sword wasn't behind him. "Methos," he said again, saying his name like it was the prize itself. "Come dance."

Methos glanced up and down the street, but there was no one any where. He turned back to the challenger, reluctantly pulling out his blade, and then saw the sword, and more importantly, the crest, from up close. Methos jumped back like he had just been scored on.

"What, after five thousand years you survive by being a coward?" the blond demanded. He brought his sword up and saluted. Methos backed up a little more.

"Pretty much," Methos said, apologetically. He continued backing up, further and further to the centre of the bridge. If he were to jump from any closer in he would probably crack something open on the bottom.

"Does your teacher know where you are?" Methos asked, quietly.

That stopped the blond. "I don't have a teacher," he said, cautiously.

"Guide, protection, master. What ever you call it. Does he know where you are and who you are fighting?" Methos asked again.

"He has nothing to do with it."

"I wouldn't think a man of your age would take to having a teacher."

"This from a man under MacLeod," the blond said, mockingly.

Methos had backed up enough without being advanced on so that he could safely jump the railing. "But we have already established that I am a coward," he said, now with the railing between them.

"Stand and fight, damn you!"

"I'd rather not," Methos said. A moment later there was the familiar rush as his heart and lungs tried crawling up his throat and the sudden wind ruffled his hair and made his eyes water. When he hit the water his lungs collapsed from the pressure, but he forced himself to swim down stream. When he finally surfaced he could still see the gleaming golden hair a distance away still standing on the bridge. It took him a long time to find a place suitable for crawling up the embankment, and by the time he made it back to his apartment he was already late for Duncan. The walk back had dried him to the point where he stopped dripping, but the denim still clung, and the heat was making him steam.

 

When he felt the warning just outside his door he sighed. Yesterday it would have been annoyed at Duncan for searching him out, but suddenly he really had to talk. He pushed the door open.

"I see your housekeeping skills haven't improved much, little bird. Not that that was your speciality, of course.

Methos froze in the doorway. Lucullus wasn't Duncan. Lucullus wasn't Duncan at all.

"You will be pleased to know your new student still has a head," Methos said. He wanted to take a step back. He informed his legs of this desire, and couldn't understand why he remained stuck to the same spot.

"Of course he does. You wouldn't have swum home if he was dead." Lucullus dragged his eyes over Methos slowly. He felt the flush build at the base of his neck, and turned his head so he wouldn't have to see the delight it gave the man standing before him.

"Who were you expecting?" Lucullus asked, taking very slow, deliberate steps to him. Any sudden movement and Methos would have bolted, but it was slow enough to be almost hypnotic.

"No one," Methos said. He chided himself at being so obvious and crossed the room to where the refrigerator was. But there was nothing inside except the same bottle of water and the grapefruit being much worse off than it was the day before. He closed the door.

And grunted as Lucullus threw him into it. He was kept in place by very delicately placed knuckles pressing right behind his shoulderblades right on the pressure point. The pain lanced through him. Lucullus didn't even give him a chance to submit. The more tightly he pushed himself against the door, the harder the knuckles pushed into his body. It was very mild pain in relation to everything else Lucullus had done to him, but it still brought tears to his eyes.

"Who were you waiting for, Methos?" Lucullus was right behind him, almost licking his ear as he spoke. "I've never known you to ignore a warning. Who was it?"

"My keeper," Methos gritted. "My new one. He doesn't like me holding a sword with him in the room."

"He lets you carry one?" Lucullus took hold of the back of the refrigerator, to give him more pressure to push into his back. Methos gasped, pressing his cheek against the cool white shell of the door. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Yes," he managed, finally remembering he was asked a question.

And then in an instant the pain was gone. Lucullus let him go, and he remained hugging the fridge for a very long moment. When he finally moved his shoulderblades he was surprised he could, but the skin right above where Lucullus touched felt dead. He turned around, leaning against the door. The slight vibration from the cooler made his back feel better. "So who is he?"

Methos calmed his breathing. He waited.

"Loyality. Well that is an emotion I never thought you would possess." Lucullus moved into his breathing space. Methos waited for the pain to start. The hands on his shoulders startled him because for a moment they just sat there. Anticipation was the worst. And then Lucullus smelled him. It was such a possessive movement Methos felt lost in it. "You smell like the river. I don't like it. Dry off, get changed, and come back here." The hands let him go.

Methos was still frozen, shocked that the contact hadn't cost him anything. "Methos?" Lucullus asked, quietly.

"Yes, sir?" the word surprised him. He hadn't said it in such a long time.

"Hurry."

It was the voice of a lover. It made him sick. He had a shower only long enough to lather his hair and rinse, and dressed in his baggiest sweater. Still, he was shivering when he finally returned to the main room.

Lucullus lifted his chin, gently. "Now, now. I am offering you a choice, little bird. Tonight you will fight my student. If you lose, your troubles are over. If you win, you belong to me. Do you understand? Tell me you understand."

"I understand," Methos said. The conversational tone to his own voice frightened him. He met Lucullus' eyes for the first time, and saw...nothing. It didn't matter if he won or lost.

"Good. Tonight. Meet me here. Seven o'clock. Do not be late, little bird."

Methos shook his head. It gave him less than three hours. He turned to go when Lucullus' voice stopped him. "Were you thinking of leaving, little bird? Did you want to fly away?"

Methos didn't turn around. "I wouldn't do that," he said.

"Yes, you would. But just to make sure you keep the rendez-vous, if you don't come back Duncan will take your place."

Methos' shoulders didn't tremble. "He would never, ever let you," Methos whispered.

"No. Probably not. But he would be just as dead."

 

Duncan turned on the shower and stepped into the stall at the same time he felt the other's presence. It only took a moment to enter the barge, so it wasn't an unwelcomed guest. "Come join me," he called.

The bathroom door opened. "I will," Amanda said.

Duncan didn't turn around. "Amanda, don't," he said.

"I don't blame you. Duncan, you never did have a chance with me. With Methos...compared to Methos you are in infant."

"Why are you doing this, Amanda? Do you think I like hurting you?"

"Turn around, Duncan."

"No."

"Turn around, Duncan. You are a naive fool. If the relationship is so consentual, you won't mind showing me who is wearing who's brand."

"It's not a brand."

"Of course it isn't. If he actually branded you, your body would heal from it in a matter of hours and he would just half to reapply it. Eventually you would stop keeping still for the iron."

Duncan turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his hips. "What are you doing here."

"I came to tell you you are free now," Amanda said. she reached for the towel, but Duncan stepped free.

"I said no," he said, quietly. "What do you mean, free?"

"Methos is leaving town."

"He never said anything to me about it."

"Were you expecting him to?"

That shut him up. Duncan looked at her. "What did you do?" he demanded.

She suddenly saw the look in his eyes. "Nothing," she protested, but backed up as he crossed the three steps between them.

"Amanda, what did you do?" Duncan asked once he had backed her into the wall. She stood still under him for a moment and then tried to push him away. Her hand hit his chest with his wet skin and her hand glanced off him without slowing down. She lost her balance and stepped into his space, but when he moved away she fell. The towel fell beside her. Amanda climbed up to her feet as Duncan's pride wouldn't let him bend down and pick the terry cloth up. She saw the tattoo, and almost touched it before Duncan turned away in anger. He crossed the room again, and a second later cinched the sweat pants over his hips.

"It shouldn't hurt too much to get it removed," she said, quietly.

"I don't want it removed," Duncan said. "What about Methos?"

The constant rejection was showing in her eyes. She began to get angry. "A head hunter is after him," she said.

"Why would a head hunter bother after Adam?" Duncan asked.

Amanda, for the first time, met his eyes. "Some don't look for reasons, MacLeod. What does it say that Methos has run away from you the first time some comes after him? What kind of a relationship is that? Duncan, I would never leave you because my life was in danger."

"You, my dear, would run straight towards me."

They both stopped as a third person approached them. But when they heard the key turn both relaxed somewhat. Neither one of them were armed.

Methos stepped off the last step and looked at the two of them together. He didn't even think Duncan would have been aware of how close they were standing. He stood at the base of the stairs and slowly crossed his arms, moving his jaw without speaking. It made the hollows under his cheekbones even more pronounced. They both looked at him guiltily, as if they really had been caught doing something wrong. Without saying anything he turned around and headed back up the stairs.

He didn't even try to out run Duncan, but when MacLeod finally caught up to him, this time wearing a shirt, he didn't slow down either.

"Methos, nothing happened."

"I believe you."

"Methos, I am telling you. Nothing happened. She just...wanted to say good-bye."

"Duncan, I am telling you. I believe you."

"Don't do this."

"Don't do what?" Methos felt his arm being grabbed. His momentum coming up so short spun him into a very tight circle and suddenly he was facing Duncan. "Why, Duncan," he purred, but kept his eyes very hard and mocking.

Duncan threw him up against the building. The air forced out his lungs made him grunt, but he turned the sound into a slightly painful sigh. "So we're back to this again," he said.

That got him released like he had just emitted an electrical shock. He remained where he was, resting his tailbone against the building.

"Stop it," Duncan snapped.

"Stop what?"

"This," Duncan said, motioning him with an angry hand. "You. Playing."

"This isn't a game, MacLeod," he said.

"Then why are you shutting me out."

"You want me to tell you I believe you. I did. Now you want me to tell you I don't. I do believe you. Nothing happened today."

"Stop it," Duncan demanded. He was furious now.

"Stop what?" he asked again. "Agreeing with you?" He threw out the challenge between them, daring Duncan to act on it. Almost begging him to. He didn't move from where he had been thrown, reminding Duncan of his superior strength. "I've marked you, Duncan. I own you," he let his eyes wander down to the man's hip and then back to the storm in the brown eyes. "Or is that what you can't deal with?"

Duncan's hand closed over his throat, pinning him back to the wall. Methos laughed as mockingly as he could with his trachea being crushed. "Hit me, MacLeod. Go on, do it," he urged.

MacLeod's free hand came up, balled in a tight fist. Methos kept eye contact, waiting for the blow that would sting for a moment and end their relationship forever, but it never came. Duncan let go of this throat and slowly stroked the ball of his thumb over Methos' cheekbone.

"You came down. You wanted to talk," Duncan said quietly.

"Damn you, MacLeod. Why couldn't you do this the easy way?" Methos exploded.

"Making you bleed is the easy way?"

"I bleed, I stop, I bleach my clothing. Yes, damn it. It was."

"It's not my way. What did you want to tell me?"

Methos exhaled, shortly. "I'm leaving Paris."

"Because of one head hunter?"

"You knew what you were getting into."

"So this is what loving you means."

"Yes. This is it exactly. I don't risk my neck. Not for you, not for anyone."

Duncan said nothing, and for a moment nothing was said. "What is it, Methos?" he asked, quietly.

Duncan would never accept it. Methos suddenly saw that. He tried one last time. "Duncan, go back to Amanda."

"Why."

"Because you are never going to see me again," Methos said. It was the truth. He waited for Duncan's outburst, but it never came. The man just looked at him.

"Come on," Methos said, taking his hand. "If I need a drink to tell you this, then you need to be knocked over the head to hear it."

"Why?"

"There are some things I've been meaning to tell you."

 

They went to a bar neither one of them knew, and went to the bar, first. Methos scanned the rows of scotch. "We'll take that," he said, pointing to the bottle with the most dust on it. He put down his own credit card. "And a couple beers to start."

The bartender polished a couple glasses, but Methos just took the bottle back to the table. The glass and both beers followed with a waitress. Methos let her open one of them, but took the other from her with the cap still on. "That's okay, dear. Leave this one be," he said.

She left them alone. Methos poured Duncan a full glass, and pushed it over. "Drink," he ordered.

Duncan did so. When he put the glass down, Methos filled it up again. "Again."

Same thing. Methos took a sip of his own beer. "What are you waiting for?" Duncan demanded.

Methos reached up and touched MacLeod's lips. It wasn't sensual, it was merely to gather information. "Can you feel that?" he asked.

"Of course," Duncan said, voice slightly annoyed.

Methos sighed, standing up. "Come on, then."

 

"Go where?"

But he was tired of Duncan's inane questions. He took Duncan's hand and led him into the slight hall and then into the washroom. It was actually much nicer than he had been anticipating. He pushed Duncan back into the stall. "Methos, what are you doing?"

Methos locked the door behind him. "I need you."

"What? You just told me--"

"I know what I just told you. But I need you," he kissed Duncan, drawing his mouth into a battle. Duncan groaned, pushing away.

"No. I am not playing this game with you."

"It isn't a game, Duncan. Please. Believe me. This is anything but a game."

"What happened?"

"I promise I'll tell you. After."

Duncan saw the pain in his face. Methos felt the man's arms around him, "Not everything has to be give and take."

Methos pushed back about three inches. "This one has to be," he whispered.

Duncan kissed his forehead, his cheekbones and his shoulder. "Are you sure?"

Methos was almost sobbing. He couldn't speak. He only nodded.

Duncan let him go. He slipped down to his knees and pulled down the man's sweats. He saw his M and kissed it, first, pressing his cheek against it. But the alcohol was running through Duncan's system and he didn't want Duncan to be incapable of enjoying himself. He nuzzled and nipped Duncan to full erection and then took him deep in his throat. He found the man's hands at the end of his arms and guided them to his head, and then let Duncan take him. It was over in minutes.

"What about you?" Duncan asked when he was able.

But Methos waited only long enough to make sure Duncan was decent before unlocking the door and washing his hands. "Forget about me," he said.

By the time Duncan returned to the table Methos had already filled his glass a third time. "Drink at your own pace," he said.

He waited for the pupils to dilate slightly. When they did he began.

"The head hunter is a student of a man who used to know me," Methos said. "He used to be my teacher as well. No, teacher is a wrong word. We were...I had just left the horsemen and I...I thought he could...don't look at me like that. Back then every bastard had a sword. We never...I mean I never...but he was good. Is good. He is very good. He taught me things. That was it."

"And then?" Duncan asked.

Methos picked up the unopened bottle. The glass was damp and cool, and he rolled it between his hands. The condensation made his hands slippery, but he never dropped it.

"I took a challenge. I won. When I recovered I had a sword to my neck. I didn't survive all those years with Kronos to die like that. He let me up...but I was in no condition to fight. It didn't last long at all. After that...the relationship changed. He used me. I let him."

He finished off his beer and ordered another one. The waitress tried to take both bottles off the table. "Leave that one," Methos said, taking it from her.

"I can get you another cold one."

"It's okay. This one doesn't have to be cold."

She shrugged at the insanities of foreigners, and left them alone.

"What aren't you telling me, Methos?" Duncan asked. His voice was slurred, slightly, but Methos could hear the sympathetic pain in it.

"You asked me before if Damarkus hurt me. Do you remember?"

Duncan nodded.

Methos ran the new bottle over his forehead. It was almost six o'clock, and he was still half an hour away from home. He didn't have any time left. He picked up the bottle and went to fill Duncan's glass again. When Duncan moved his hand over the top Methos firmly removed it and topped another inch into it. "Lucullus...needed the pain. If I died...when I died it made him furious that I couldn't handle that much pain and not...accept it. I learned to accept it. And that is why I am leaving here and I am never coming back."

"Right then. Let me go with you. Run away from him, not me."

"Duncan...I can't. He...knows who you are. Forget about me. Please. I'm already dead."

"I won't. And you cannot honestly expect me to."

"No...I suppose I can't. And that is why I am sorry."

Duncan's eyes clouded with more than the alcohol. "For what?" he asked.

Methos snatched up the warm beer and reversed it in his hands with a quick flick of his wrists. "For this, to start with," he said, and then brought the bottle across Duncan's head. It shattered, spilling frothy beer, shards of glass almost everywhere. Methos stood up as the rest of the patrons, both of them, turned to where he was.

"I did warn you," Methos said, sadly, but then disgraced himself in feeling for a pulse. There was one, but it was weak. He took out his sword, sliding around the darkened booth and glad for the dim light, and slid it under Duncan's thigh. He grabbed his coat, signed the bill and walked out of the bar.

 

He was being followed. He reached for his sword before remembering where it was. He turned around slowly. If a head hunter came for him he would almost welcome not having to be back at his apartment by seven.

It was only Amanda. She played with her hands as she walked, and the movement drew his eyes. He bowed to her as she approached. "Game well played. You won," he said.

"I had nothing to do with it."

"Please, Amanda, don't. I'm not angry. I respect you, actually. I didn't pull any punches trying to get him. I should have expected as much from you."

She flushed. "You knew it was me."

"Someone told him my name. I know I didn't and Duncan I'm pretty sure wouldn't have either."

"Methos..." she began, but didn't finish. He waited, using up time he didn't have.

"Yes?" he finally prompted.

"I'm sorry, Methos."

"For destroying my life or getting me killed?" he asked.

"It's just a head hunter. You should have run away like you always do. I don't want you dead, I just want you out of Paris," she protested.

He exhaled, sharply. Her eyes were tired, and he realized for maybe the first time that nothing had happened at the barge earlier. "The...there is history you didn't know about. I have to go, Amanda."

"Wait. Please. You aren't going to tell him, are you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "What good will that do?"

Richie answered the hotel room door with his sword out. "Relax, Richie, I'm not armed," Methos said.

The confusion, revulsion and disbelief all showed themselves on Richie's face. "I don't believe you."

"Would you like to pat me down?" Methos offered. He smiled bitterly, more exposing his fangs than anything.

"Taking off your jacket would be enough."

"If you insist," Methos said. "But I am warning you, Richie. This is how it all starts."

"What do you want, Methos?" Richie demanded.

"To talk to you about MacLeod."

"Why?" Richie asked. He was suddenly wary.

"Because he hasn't seen you since the night on the barge and it isn't fair to him. He is going to need his friends close to him and regardless of how you feel about me, I love him enough not to want him to hurt and be alone," Methos said. He let some of the exhaustion he was feeling enter his voice. Richie was so young. He felt almost arthritic around the boy.

 

"You're running away?" Richie demanded. He was still disgusted at the idea, but he didn't like Methos hurting his friend even more.

"You had better sit down," Methos said, motioning Richie's own bed.

The kid sat down before remembering that it was his room. He jumped to his feet. "What is it?"

"If I was running away, would I be without a sword?" Methos asked, quietly.

Richie stared at him, and then nodded. "Who is it?"

"An old friend of mine. Tell Duncan it isn't his fault. I would have stayed with him...but it would have killed us both. Tell him...tell him I'm sorry and I--"

"Why don't you tell him this yourself?"

"He wouldn't let me go if I did. This isn't his battle. Tell him I said that."

Richie nodded, the hostility gone from his face. "Is it that bad?" he asked.

"Lucullus is not a nice fellow, and we did not part on the best of terms. It is not going to be pleasant."

"At least bring a sword, Methos."

Methos shook his head, sadly. "I wouldn't want to tempt myself into trying to win," he said. He stood up. "You're a good kid, Richie. A little close minded, but a lot better off than I was when I was your age...I think. Duncan needs protection more than he knows."

Richie stood up and offered to shake hands. "Good luck," he said.

Methos glanced down at his hand, but didn't shake it. He clasped the boy's shoulder instead. "Keep it. Give it to someone who wants it."

 

 

Methos got back to his apartment at three minutes to the hour. Taking a deep breath he opened the door.

End.

 

author's note-- The next part is bad. I'm sorry. It did start out as such an innocent little story. Poor, poor Methos.


	5. The Jaws that Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos is put through his paces for making his choice.

"The Jaws that Bite" by Barb Geiger

Methos, Duncan and the concept of Immortality belong to Panzer, Davis, Rysher Entertainment, and Gaumont Television. They have since been returned, only slightly limping. Promise.

author's note-- Sequel to "The Claws that Catch". Thank you, Olympia, for everything!

WARNING!!!! Horrible violence upon Methos' beautiful body ahead.

 

Methos let himself into the apartment, ignoring the strength of the warning. The two men glanced up from where they were.

He crossed the floor and took the half eaten grapefruit from the fridge. The water would keep until the next renter.

No one said anything as Methos groped around for a spoon and sat down on the bed. "You boys don't mind if I finish this, do you?" he asked.

They glanced at each other, but the silence continued. Methos carefully ate out each of the segments and then drank the last of the juice. He threw it out as Lucullus stood up, taking out a gun. Methos stepped back. "You don't have to shoot me," he said, holding out his hands.

"I know," Lucullus said, and pulled the trigger.

He came back filthy from lying on the dirt. His fingers where the grapefruit had touched were black with grim, yet still smelled like bitter citrus. He pushed himself up, feeling for the bullet hole. It was too small. There wouldn't be one on his back. He turned his head to cough up bullet. Only a true sadist would shoot another immortal with only a .22.

"He's awake," Canten said.

"Brilliant, Lucullus. This one is talented. Don't let him go," Methos said, pulling himself to his hands and knees.

Canten kicked him in the gut, almost lifting him off the ground. He hacked, unable to draw breath. He collapsed back to his elbows, pressing his forehead against the dirt.

"Leave him alone. Give him a chance to recover," Lucullus said.

Methos remained on his knees until he could take a breath, and not have it hurt. Eventually he sat up, back on his haunches.

"Ready, little bird?" Lucullus asked.

Methos nodded, voice not trustworthy.

"Good, begin," Lucullus demanded.

Canten pulled his sword out. Methos didn't move from his knees.

"I said begin!" Lucullus snapped.

"That would be difficult," Methos said, not looking up.

"Little bird, don't play these games."

"How could you man-handle my body and not notice the lack of sword on my person?" he asked.

Canten brought his sword up. "Fine with me."

"No," Lucullus said. He crossed over to where Methos knelt.

Methos' head was lifted up by the edge of a sword. He kept his eyes down, and spoke to the ground. "Go on, take it."

"Is this your choice?" Lucullus whispered. The sword caressed up to just below his jawbone. It sawed at him, feather light. Methos could hear the scraping of his skin. Any moment he expected this white hot pain of his skin opening up, but it never happened.

"You gave me a choice," Methos whispered. "I've made it."

Lucullus lifted the sword, giving him only one choice to stand up.

"I said fight my student. Do you remember that, little bird?"

Methos didn't nod. "Yes," he breathed.

"Would you like to know what happens to your MacLeod?"

"Do you mean after he takes your head?" Methos snapped.

He was annoying the man. Lucullus delicately picked up his bottom lip between two fingernails. "We know now the lips are so sensitive because of all the nerve endings on them," he whispered.in Methos' ear. Suddenly Lucullus dug his thumb nail right into Methos' lip. Methos jerked back like he had just been branded. "But we knew that before, didn't we?"

"Kill me," Methos whispered. He, against his will, snaked out his tongue and gathered the blood from his lip. He tasted it, the coppery saltiness filling his mouth.

"You die, little bird, you die with a sword in your hands," Lucullus whispered, taking his own blade and thrust it into Methos hand.

"Take his head," Lucullus said, turning back.

Methos stood frozen in the spot as Canten came to him. "A coward and a pathetic swordsman," he mocked. "How does it feel to give everything you are to me?" he asked.

Methos trembled as the sword came up to his shoulders. His arms felt deadened, the sword made of lead, but in an instant he could have it in the up and ready. Live or die. Pain or nothingness. He worked his jaw carefully, taking into memory how it was to have a body that did not hurt. An hour ago there was only one choice...but now....

Canten brought his sword up with measured exactness to where Methos' neck touched on his head, and then drew back a final time.

Methos decided not to wait for it. He met the blade, deflected it and stepped away. "You fool," he hissed. "Do you even know what he needs from you? Do you even know what he expects from you?"

"Shut up, old man," Canten hissed. His form started out neat, but the more Methos danced back and refused to engage the angrier he became. The blade strokes became longer and harder. Methos began stepping closer to the fight, encouraging it. When their swords did cross, Methos only deflected the speed and energy. He did nothing to stop it. Canten was tiring and he could wait.

Eventually Canten tired enough so that Methos stepped right into his space and grabbed the hilt over Canten's hand. He squeezed, digging his nails into Canten's flesh.

There was more fight left in the blond than Methos thought, so he did the only thing he could. He kissed Canten's sweaty forehead at the same moment as slamming his foot against Canten's toes. The pain and the shock caused Canten to jump back, leaving Methos with both swords.

"Take his head," Lucullus demanded.

"No," Methos said.

Canten's eyes were huge. "Do it or take his place, little bird."

"Do you actually think he was going to let you take my head?" Methos asked, ignoring Lucullus. It was a very stupid thing to do and eventually he would suffer for it, but he took that risk. "Do you think he would give his student 5000 years of quickening? Get out of here. If he doesn't kill you tonight he will, shortly."

Canten glanced to Lucullus, and then back to Methos, holding both swords easily in his hands. He didn't say anything, just turned and ran.

When Methos turned back to Lucullus, and saw the gun again.

"That wasn't part of the game," Lucullus said, mildly like he was chastising a very young child.

Methos dropped both blades and stepped away from them. He held out his hands, chest high. "You don't have to do this," he whispered. "I'm yours, now."

The first bullet tore through his knee, and he fell. The scream almost choked him as he fell on his ass and cradled the ruined leg to his body. Lucullus walked over, still holding the gun. "Where else is it painful to get shot. Oh, yes, I remember."

Methos knowledge of anatomy didn't help him as he could feel the small intestines in his body rupture and spill their poison into a body that couldn't die from it. The bullet lacking the strength to leave his body bounced madly around his belly like a pinball. It finally knicked a rib.

Neither would have been fatal, but the pain of the healing was almost as bad as the wounds themselves.

Lucullus pressed the gun into the soft area under his jaw. Through the haze of pain Lucullus kissed his cheek, running his tongue to the lobe of his ear. "Would you like to die?" he whispered, taking the lobe in his teeth. "And heal in peace, or shall I keep you hanging on death so long you couldn't repair a paper-cut?"

Methos swallowed, the filth in his body made him so cold he could feel the muscle trembles shake him. He was going into septic shock, he noted, analytically.

"Kill me," he whispered.

"Are you sure you realize what a favour that would be?"

"Kill me," he whispered, not being able to control the shakes. He turned his head, pressing it against Lucullus hand. "Please."

The sudden coldness in his chest made the rest of him feel warm. But only for an instant.

 

He came back aware that he was coughing. He sat up, wiping his eyes. He had been moved. They were now inside, and from the slight swaying (once he realized that it wasn't just him) showed they were on a boat.

"Feeling better, little bird?"

Methos only nodded.

"You have done so much today that has angered me. Shall I name them or do you know?" Lucullus asked.

"I know," he whispered.

"I was thinking about killing you. I mean really killing you," Lucullus made a careless chopping gesture with his wrist. "Your head will be enough of a prize to make up the damage you have caused. Would you like that?"

"No, sir," Methos said.

"Why is that, little bird? Four hours ago you were willing, even eager to stretch that pretty neck of yours out for any one."

"I don't want to die," Methos whispered.

"Say that again."

"I don't want to die," he said, voice stronger.

"Then you will not displease me again."

Methos shook his head.

"Good, come to me."

Methos placed both palms on the floor and was about to push up when Lucullus was standing over him and knocked him to the floor. The ear he hit rang, and it was almost enough to distract him as the weight of Lucullus came down on one foot over the throat.

He swallowed, carefully, afraid that his throat wouldn't open up again. He looked up, dispelling the pain away from the locus and met Lucullus' eyes. The humiliation of having to show his tormentor how willing he was to accept the pain hurt almost as much of the pressure...but the body does not forget. He accepted the pain, controlled his breathing, and let Lucullus see it all.

"You haven't forgotten everything, little bird. This might be a little easier on you than I thought," the foot removed itself. "Now let's see how much you have since learned."

Methos pushed himself up to his knees, taking a moment to rub his throat. He coughed, but it didn't hurt too much. He raised himself off his haunches, slowly running a hand up the man's thigh. The slacks' material felt expensive, but caught on his calluses. That, more than anything, made his stomach sick. He cupped the man delicately, and saw the scorn in Lucullus' eyes. It was the bending to his will of others that Lucullus liked, the actual act itself was almost meaningless, except for the humiliation it caused the other.

Methos gently ground the palm of his hand against the man, feeling it slightly harden. He moved closer, and the scent of the man almost made him gag. It was so different from the clean sweat of MacLeod. He pressed his cheek against the cock through the cloth, and rolled the testicles against each other with his hand. He had to wait for permission to go the next step. No one had to remind him of that again.

Lucullus nodded, finishing the first test. "Go ahead."

Methos had to look down long enough to manage the buckle and the zipper itself. He flinched as Lucullus pulled the belt free and placed it on the table. "For later," he whispered.

Methos slightly relaxed at that. He could handle the belt. The belt was simple. It hurt, but there was very little chance of serious pain or damage. "Take off your sweater, little bird."

He sat back for a moment and pulled it over his head. Lucullus sighed. "You have such beautiful skin, my darling. It's the colour of white smoke. It is too bad what ever markings I can give it are just temporary. Tell me. Does MacLeod appreciate the colour and depth of your bruises?"

To get out of the question, Methos nuzzled the man's half erection, hoping to have the question forgotten about. A hand came down on his forehead and pushed him back. "Little bird, that is one," he said, quietly.

Methos paled. One was bad. Two was worse. Three was...three wasn't good at all. "He doesn't beat me," he said, quietly.

"You gave yourself to a fool then, if he doesn't enjoy everything you have to offer."

He, literally, took his tongue between his teeth and bit down until speech became impossible. When he looked up again Lucullus was smiling. "Now, now, little bird. Shall we try for two?"

He shook his head, cowering. It was a game that he knew all the rules to, but the most important one said he could never win. Accept, he thought.

"Right. One it is. Shall we prepare ourselves?" Lucullus asked. His voice was light, thrilled, even.

"May I sit up?" Methos asked, voice dead.

"For a moment."

Methos undid his jeans, and slid them off his hips. It was a clumsy moment as he tried to pull them off without rising too far off the floor, and then his boots and socks joined them. Naked and cold, he went back to kneeling and then crossed his wrists behind his back and pressed his forehead against the hard-wood floor. His new, hyper-detached self noticed the gaps between the squares that would be almost impossible to scrub his blood from between.

Lucullus gathered his wrists up and lashed them together with a leather tie. He could have broken it if he really had to, but that would be an automatic advancement to three, and he had only survived one of those. That was the worst part, trying to control his struggles. For a moment Lucullus' hand dragged its nails across Methos' back in an almost caress, and the contact made his skin tingle.

And then Lucullus left him. He could feel him close by, but even after the door opened and closed he didn't move from where he was. His hands started to throb first from the lack of circulation, and then his shoulders from his unnatural position. The draft of the room against his bare skin made him shiver, and, eventually, the deep muscles in his thighs began to complain about their positions.

Time passed. He didn't know how much. There were no windows in the room, and even there were he couldn't see them from where he had been placed.

Lucullus came back, and brought with him the smell of fresh cut grass, only it was slightly different. He knew enough not to move, but at least the dread had cut down on the amount his body was shivering. The first contact against his shoulders almost made him jerk hard enough to break the leather. He slammed his shoulder into the floor to keep from fighting, but the milk of the nettle raised tiny blisters every where it touched. It was dragged over his shoulders, and then his wrists were lifted up to score their underneath. The joints in his shoulders almost popped out as Lucullus lifted the arms too high, and then irritant was against his forearms as well. Not that Lucullus stopped there. The broken leaves and stems were brought against his flanks, thighs, and delicately across his buttocks.

The itching and the pain made him tremble all again. He couldn't heal as long as the nettle milk was still on his back. It would burn and itch until Lucullus permitted him to wash it off.

When the first of the belt blows hit him he screamed, almost choking himself. It felt as if Lucullus had used hellfire rather than leather to strike at the abused skin on his shoulders. After the scream escaped it took a very long time for him to remember to replace the air, and Lucullus was willing to wait.

For a moment the belt was put down and he felt Lucullus' hand caress the sweaty nape of his neck. "Never assume for a moment that I don't know how much something will hurt you," Lucullus whispered in Methos' ear.

Methos couldn't speak. He tried nodding, but forgot that his head was still pressed against the floor. It was enough. Lucullus struck him again against the small of his back, but his body couldn't produce another scream so quickly after the last one. The sound out of throat was more of a cry with a begging sound to it, but neither part of it bothered Lucullus.

The third fourth and fifth blow were so fast and so close together Methos hunched his back up against his will, which then pulled his shoulder blades out again. Barely remembering in time he clasped wrist to wrist with his hands, but he had already felt the thin strip give a little more.

And then...the waiting game. Lucullus retreated back far enough so that Methos would know he was out of swinging range, and walked around his body carefully. The floor creaked slightly with his weight, and Methos tracked his movements with what ever mind he had left.

Finally he took in a shaky breath. "Please," he groaned. "To what ever gods you have, please," he whimpered. He didn't recognize the voice as his own. It sounded so...beaten.

"Please, what, little bird?"

"Enough."

"Enough? Not hardly. Three more. You get to pick where."

Torture as a co-operative sport. He had forgotten this variation. "Quickly, little bird, or the number doubles. Where does the first blow go. Shoulders?" the belt moved down, dancing across the blisters on his back. He hissed in pain. "Lower back?" it moved over his hands and down along to the hollow of his spinal cord. "Ass?" Lucullus drew back and gave him a very slight tap. He jolted forward, but his body was too exhausted to express properly exactly how much that hurt. "Quickly, little bird."

"One each," Methos whispered, closing his eyes. It was easier to pass out when the eyes were in darkness, and he couldn't take that chance. He opened them again and squared his shoulders as best he could. Then he waited.

The first blow across his shoulders knocked out every ounce of air his lungs had ever held. The second, following moments later was against the small of his back and it made his mouth snap shut. He couldn't breathe and he could feel his body about to pass out. He fought against the darkening rings that appeared in his vision, desperately fighting his lungs' wish to just give up. He wasn't allowed to pass out until at least level two, and he wasn't allowed to die until level three. At that exact moment he felt like he was going to do one, and then the other.

"Still with me, little bird?"

He couldn't answer. He barely had the strength to open and close his hands to show that he was still awake. It couldn't have been a heartbeat later, but until his lungs opened up again he felt like another lifetime had passed. He sucked back air, almost choking on it as he gasped until the sickening lightheadedness had been replaced by the much more grounded agony his body was in. One more. He could handle one more. He lifted his cheek off the floor, careful to keep his forehead still down, and waited.

 

Lucullus left him alone for a moment, and when he came back Methos could hear the water sloshing. It was put down beside him and almost as an afterthought Lucullus delivered the last blow. Methos sobbed, once, but had no other responses left.

Lucullus was nothing but a pragmatic sadist. He carefully washed Methos' ass with soapy, if cold water. It stung, but Methos accepted it. Lucullus then put on the gloves he had handled the nettles with.

Methos almost didn't feel the rape, his body was so battered. But that was what Lucullus wanted to feel. If the body under him wasn't shuddering either from fear or pain or both, he was useless. The gloved hand on his throat still had some of the milk on it, and as it dug into his flesh new blisters appeared. Lucullus slammed inside him no more than half a dozen times and then came, getting off him with remarkable lack of interest.

"Wash off and clean this place up," Lucullus ordered. He untied the strap holding Methos, but made no other comment about it. The bastard liked to tie him using both old and new ties so he would never know how much strength was left.

Methos' ear was grabbed and he was lifted off the floor. He followed Lucullus, head level with the man's hip, into the small bathroom and started the shower. The hot water made each one of the hundreds of little welts and blisters scream out, and the soap needed to clean the milk off made it even worse. It didn't stop him from scrubbing his body down with the sponge hard enough to draw new blood. All the time he washed Lucullus didn't leave him alone, but he didn't have the energy to protest. He turned off the water and caught the towel thrown to him. Lucullus didn't want his hardwood floors wet. He dried himself, wanting to keep the towel over his shoulders for warmth, but it was plucked off him as he was marched back into the room. He cleaned up, lucky that he hadn't actually bled, and within the hour he was in Lucullus' bedroom and a thick metal shackle was attached around his ankle.

 

Methos clawed at the belt looped around his neck. It tightened, pinching his skin a little bit more and made it impossible to breathe. That was when he felt Lucullus moving behind him. The blistering pain of being forced dry made him jolt forward, but with the hand wrapped around the belt half a dozen times he felt like a staked out goat. He fought harder for breath, which used his oxygen up even more quickly. He slipped, falling off his hands onto his elbows, and didn't have the strength to push up again.

That's when he felt the knife. It raked up and down his back. The pain registered fuzzily, and he felt himself slide down under. The last thing he realized was that the blood, running down his sides, was vaguely ticklish.

He came to, still in the pool of blood. His heart had stopped, and it was still beating sluggishly as if sulking that it had been brought back. He moved, and the blood that had dried to his skin pulled as he moved up.

Lucullus looked up from the paper. "It's been a week, little bird. I do expect you to start lasting longer."

"I'm not as young as I used to be," Methos snapped.

Lucullus carefully folded the paper up. "What did you say?" he asked, carefully.

Methos suddenly felt defiant. He knew he was going to be punished any way. "I'm not as young as I used to be," he repeated as if Lucullus hadn't heard him.

Lucullus picked up the knife, pressing it against Methos' neck. "Are you telling me to take your head? With this little knife it will take me a while to saw it off. Do you want me to take your head?"

Methos waited until the knife began cutting into his throat. The blood from the superficial cut splashed. "No," he whispered, finally.

"No. Then what did you say?"

"Something incredibly stupid, sir," he whispered.

"Why did you say it then, little bird?"

"It's my defense mechanism."

"I would suggest you find a new mechanism. Wouldn't you, little bird?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Methos agreed, quickly.

Lucullus reversed the blade, offering it to Methos. It wasn't a request. He took it, and the handle was still slightly sticky with his blood. "Methos...I want you to carve my name in your thigh."

He stopped. "What?"

Lucullus lovingly ran his hand down Methos inner thigh muscle. "I want to see you cut my name in your thigh. Deeply, Methos. If I don't think it is deep enough I will reapply it tonight, and every night for the next week."

Methos almost dropped the knife. "It's going to happen, and if I have to do it I will make it the beginning of the evening, not the end. Do you understand?"

Instead of answering he made the first cut of the L into the flesh right above his knee. For seven minutes the only sounds were his muffled grunts and the sound of the dripping blood onto the floor. By the time he got to the last simplified S the L had begun to heal, but because his body had been through so much it was very slow. And very painful. He was shaking from blood loss, and offered the knife back to Lucullus.

"Not quite yet," Lucullus took Methos' bloody hand in his own very clean one, and they watched together until the name was nothing but a silvery line in his flesh. "Now I want you to kill yourself."

"What?"

"Stab yourself through the heart. I want to watch you die."

He was too tired to argue. His fingers found the right gap through his ribs and with practiced ease, slid the knife home. He remembered falling forward and that was it.

He slept through the night. When he woke up, the only pain was from the empty stomach. He rolled onto his back, and the clanking of the chain told Lucullus he was awake. "Sleep well, little bird?" Lucullus asked.

Methos looked up to his eyes. "Yes, sir," he said, promising himself to be on the best behaviour.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes, sir," he said.

Lucullus smiled at that.

 

He had been permitted his jeans, and he was grateful for that. Lucullus had shaved him this morning, probably more to let him feel the straight edge on his neck than anything, and he sat down where he had been told in the bathroom where Lucullus was now shaving himself. The gun was always within reaching distance.

"You used to let me do that," Methos said, quietly.

"I used to trust you as well," Lucullus said, not stopping.

Do you think you can keep me locked in here forever?" Methos asked.

"Eventually I'll just take your head. Don't be so impatient."

Methos tried again. He leaned forward, sliding a hand up Lucullus' ankle. Lucullus kicked him away. "If you think I believe that you completely came around after one week, little bird, I would almost think you were insulting me. You aren't insulting me, are you?"

Methos dropped back against the wall. "No, sir."

"I didn't think so."

He finished up and pointed the gun at him. Methos raised his hands up, tiredly. He didn't particularly want to die again.

"Move it. Up."

He pushed to his feet.

 

"So, tell me why you left me," Lucullus said, putting his legs up on the footrest. He was very careful with the staging; Methos had to look up to see him where ever they were.

"You know why," Methos said, quietly.

"I assure you, I don't," Lucullus said, voice slightly testy.

"You brought the other one home," Methos said. He didn't even remember the boy's name. He just remembered that the boy had been a very young immortal and didn't seem to mind Lucullus' attentions. He had been beautiful, though.

"And that bothered you?"

"I didn't survive Kronos only to be one of a matched set, Lucullus," he said, quietly.

"You were jealous."

"I was not."

"I think you are lying to me."

Methos opened his mouth and then shut it again. "Maybe, a little," he said, quietly. He rested the back of his head against the wall. The boy had been so...delicate, but took the pain better than he could. After night after night of the floor listening to the two of them, he just left. Lucullus had been with him almost thirty years before the new addition. Eventually their life together got...comfortable. He winced at the memory. He did something wrong, he was punished. He did something right, he was rewarded. It was a very easy life.

Lucullus stood up, standing over him, and checked his watch.

Methos glanced up, but the supplication was better than having to stare at his groin. "Tell me you enjoyed it, little bird."

"No," Methos said. He swallowed, carefully.

Lucullus smiled, but it didn't calm him any. "Tell me you enjoyed it," he repeated, carefully putting his foot over Methos' jeans. Despite his fear, the contact was sexually charged. Lucullus began slowly rubbing his foot up and down Methos' cock. "Tell me you enjoyed it."

Methos gritted his teeth. "No," he whispered.

Lucullus' smile dropped to a sneer. "None of it?"

Methos almost couldn't control the thrusts his hips wanted to be making. He banged his head against the wall, hoping the pain would make the desire go away, but it didn't work. "No," he repeated.

Suddenly Lucullus stopped and took a step back. He bent down, kissing Methos on the forehead. "My little bird. That, is a two. Never lie to me," he said. He checked his watch again. "But not right now. Tonight, my darling. I know you are out of practice, but if you die on me I am not going to have pity on you."

He paled, but nodded. He was dragged into the bedroom again, and the shackle locked in place over his ankle. Just before Lucullus left him again he set the alarm on the bedside clock to nine o'clock, and then turned the face away. "I'll be back just after that alarm goes off, little bird," Lucullus said, and left him alone. In three hours he would be torn apart.

For the first while, until he was sure Lucullus was not coming back, he tried working the shackle, but he could barely get a pinky between the metal and his skin. He didn't like that. If he stretched out along the floor he could barely reach the closet, and it took another while to manage to open the closet door by digging his nails into the wood. Inside, there was nothing he could use. He glanced back to the bedside table and noticed the legs were wood, but heavy.

After three or four times of smashing the heavy table against the floor, he finally broke one of the legs free. It was exactly what he needed. It was six inches long and almost three wide with a metal rod through it.

This was the part he hated. He sat up on his hip, curling his legs up almost under him. The left one, with the shackle, stuck out a little on its own.

He took three quick breaths, and whacked his own ankle with the table leg. "FUCK," he groaned, and then exhaled through his vocal cords. The sound was probably the only thing that kept him from passing out. He fell forward, pressing his head against the cheap carpet until the world centred again. Quickly, so his body wouldn't have a chance to heal, he crushed his own foot, almost passing out as he could feel the bone shards and hear them grate together as he slowly forced the shackle down and off. He passed out only once, but by then it was already half down his foot and it took only another moment to slip the damned thing off. It would have been tempting to let himself pass out and repair some of the damage, but he needed all the time he could to get off the boat. He might have to faint later. He crawled to the door, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Climbing the stairs made him curse each time the broken foot touched one of the stairs. Once outside, he pulled himself to the edge of the yacht and threw himself into the water. Drowning himself killed the pain as well.


	6. Vorpal Sword in Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final confrontation.

The water lapping at his face woke him. He opened his eyes and pulled his head out of the water only because his body couldn't handle being drowned again. He lay half in the black water and his cheek was covered in the filthy foam that gathered on the edge. He sat up, washing off as best he could in the dirty water and hesitantly stood up. The wind touched his naked, wet chest and the goose bumps rose up instantly. He didn't even have shoes on and his jeans were wet and filthy. Both feet took his weight as if nothing had happened, but his knees occasionally failed to lock in place as he walked.

The ground was uneven and in the darkness he couldn't really see what he was walking on. Twice he stepped on broken glass, but other than pulling it out of his feet he didn't stop.

Eventually he got to a road, and started walking back to Paris.

An hour later his jeans upgraded to just filthy and his body gave up trying to tell him how cold he was. It was a bad sign, but he ignored it.

Finally a pick-up truck passed him, and slowed down, backing up. It was the only traffic he had seen, and he warily approached the open window. "What the hell happened to you?" the male driver asked. He had to be at least fifty, with grey hair and a suspicious face.

"Boating accident," Methos said.

The man looked him up and down, and shook his head. "Going to Paris?"

He nodded.

"Climb in the back. Don't try anything."

"No, sir," Methos said. He swung himself over into the flatbed, and hugged his knees to his body. The wind was as cold as the water was, but at least he would get back to the city that night. Sitting there, he realized he could have gone the other way and just disappear; Duncan thought he was dead and Lucullus would never find him if he didn't want to be found. But he was sick...well, as sick as an immortal could be...and tired, and he had no money and no identification. He had no where else to go.

 

The barge's lights were on. He smiled at that. The light meant Duncan. While still in the pick-up his body began telling him he was much warmer than he was, and now he didn't even mind the cold wind off the river. He climbed aboard, and knocked on the hatch.

The door opened more quickly than he had been expecting and the light he had wanted suddenly reflected off a sword point. "Amanda! So good to see you," he said, grinning up at her.

Amanda whipped the blade away. "Methos?" she asked.

It just seemed right she was there. He stepped past her, going into barge. His head felt light, like he had been on a drinking binge yet again, with none of the sickness in the stomach. It was a very calming feeling.

And then he saw Duncan, standing with his sword in his hands as well. Duncan didn't look as good as Duncan could, he thought to himself. His eyes were dark, and the soft lighting of the barge made them look even darker. No amount of kind light could hide the darkness or the thickness under his eyes. The hair around his head was wild and tangled, and the Scot actually had the beginning of a beard. Methos didn't like that at all. Amanda might accept whisker burns, but he had standards.. The thought almost made him giggle, and he had to cover his mouth with his forearm to stop himself.

Beer! His eyes were drawn to the bottle sitting on the coffee table. Beer would be good. He crossed the floor with the same jerky steps that brought him from the front of the hospital to the barge, and took the half drunk bottle from the table. Still, no one said anything, and the silence made him realize his ears were ringing, which was odd, because no one had hit him there for at least three days. "You've really let yourself go, MacLeod," he said. And then, for some reason, the carpet's pattern got really big.

 

Duncan grabbed the falling body before it hit the ground. The beer bottle slipped through the deadened fingers and rolled under the couch spilling its contents in a foamy line. "What the hell is wrong with him?" Amanda demanded.

Duncan picked Methos up and carried him to the bed. "Hypothermia. He's frozen solid. Get some soup on. He'll be all right."

"Well, of course he'll be all right," Amanda said, crossly, and then realized Duncan wasn't trying to convince her. She set the kettle on, and then sat down beside where Duncan lay Methos down and covered him with the blankets. She touched Methos' forehead, and snatched her hand back. It was like touching a corpse. The water whistled, and just as she stood up to turn it down she saw Duncan scraping his hair back into a pony tail. "Where are you going?"

"To find Lucullus."

"You aren't leaving him here."

"I'll come back."

"Duncan, you are not leaving him here alone," Amanda snapped.

Her raised voice upset Methos in his sleep. "No..." he moaned. "Not again."

Amanda grabbed Duncan's arm. "You are not going any where, Duncan. Not until he wakes up. You don't even know where Lucullus is."

Duncan pulled away. "The night isn't that cold, which means he's been under water for a while. That's all I need to know. Stay with him, Amanda." He grabbed his jacket and took the stairs two at a time.

 

Methos didn't really wake up for at least two hours. Amanda waited by the bedside for the first hour, and then moved to the couch. It was there she first heard Methos' mumblings. She went to the bed again to hear more clearly.

Most of it was jumbled, and only a small portion of what she could hear was in English, but it was enough to know why Methos looked like the hell he did. Curled up in the fetal position he looked younger than Richie did, when his face wasn't twisted in remembered pain. After the second hour Methos' eyes began to twitch under the almost translucent eyelids. He was waking up.

He sat up, gasping for air like he had been under water all that time. He looked around, wildly, finally recognizing the buzz in his head for what it was, and he scrambled back against the head board.

Amanda waited for some of the wildness to leave Methos eyes before speaking. "You're on the barge," she said, quietly.

Methos looked around him, taking in what he could. His head still didn't feel right, but he was aware of a dozen things at once. He was still dressed only in jeans, but the silkiness of the sheets felt wonderful against his skin. It was early morning, but the sky hadn't quite turned colours yet. Amanda sat across from him, and they were the only one in the barge. He pulled the covers up over him because he really did feel cold. He had to remind himself that he gave Duncan back. It still hurt. He swallowed.

"Are you hungry?" Amanda asked, standing up.

"Where's MacLeod?" Methos asked, rubbing his face. The skin stayed in place, which surprised him slightly. He felt numb all over.

"Off getting more food," Amanda said, but her eyes weren't truthful.

"You're lying to me. Where is MacLeod?" he asked again.

"He went to go find Lucullus. We have soup or I could make you a sandwich."

"Where is my sword."

"Gone."

"What do you mean, gone?" Methos demanded.

"I mean it isn't here."

"Where?"

"Somewhere else."

"Amanda, where is my sword?"

"At Joe's."

"Joe's? What's it doing there?" he demanded. He was hurt to no end that Duncan hadn't even thought to keep his sword on the barge. It made him feel forgotten about. Duncan truly thought he was dead and the damned Scot couldn't even keep a memorial up for a week.

"It was here," Amanda said, seeing his concern. "But every time he looked at it he got himself drunk again. I moved it to Joe's because it wasn't healthy for him. Where are you going?"

Methos climbed to his feet. He hadn't realized how tall he was before, but now suddenly the floor seemed a long way down. "To go get it. Duncan needs help."

"No, you aren't," she said, crossing her arms.

"I'd like to see you try to stop me," Methos snapped.

Amanda didn't respond. She delicately placed two fingers of his forehead and pushed off lightly. He fell down as his body crumbled beneath him and he bounced on the bed. "Methos, you are going to stay in bed and eat the damned soup if I have to tie you in place to do it," she said. Methos briefly wondered where she got the mothering instinct. It wasn't a particularly good mothering instinct. "And then, if you behave yourself I might go out and bring your sword back, if you swear to me on Duncan's life that you will stay here and keep still."

He opened his mouth to speak when she touched his lips with her finger. "On Duncan's life," she repeated.

He dropped his eyes. "I swear."

"Good. You look horrible. When was the last time you ate?"

He didn't remember. He didn't say anything, though. Amanda went to the kitchen and reheated a few things, and the smell suddenly reminded him that he did, indeed, possess a stomach. The cramp it gave off almost made him double up in pain.

Soup out of a can and a sandwich with just meat almost made him cry. He gulped the soup back, opening the bread and wolfing down the meat before dunking the bread in the left over broth. Amanda took the empty plates. "My sword," he said.

"I'll get it. You stay in this bed."

He glared, but didn't move. She glared back, and then gathered up her jacket. "Stay."

"Woof," he said.

She nodded, "Well, you are starting to feel better, at least," she said, and then went the stairs. He heard the door unlock and lock again, and then footsteps.

There was another long pause, and then another immortal approached. "MacLeod?" he asked, quietly, glancing around. He had no weapon if it wasn't. He relaxed as he saw Amanda's legs come back down. "I stayed," he said, irritably.

"No, you didn't little bird," Lucullus said.

Methos saw the sword at Amanda's throat. "Uh...that's not quite the deterrent you think it is," he said, simply.

"Methos!" Amanda protested.

"What?" Methos asked. He ignored her glare.

"Couldn't keep his bed empty a week, could he," Lucullus asked, false sympathy dripping. He slid the sword sideways, splitting her throat. She crumpled, but Lucullus had kindly pulled his blade back before it severed the bone. "My dear little bird, you don't look quite so good."

"Don't call me that," Methos said, "Kill me if you have to, but stop calling me that. I am not your little bird."

Lucullus placed the bloody blade delicately on her healing neck. "I could take her head."

"Do it and I'll take yours when you're down," Methos said.

"Then I suppose she lives for a while, yet," Lucullus said, smiling. He kicked Amanda's body over with his foot and stabbed her through the heart. "There now, we won't be disturbed for a while, will we?" he asked. Methos threw the covers back, but Lucullus moved too quickly and grabbed his shoulder. "Where are you flying to, darling?"

"Not in his bed," Methos said. He bowed his head, submissively. He was still too tired to fight, and he felt weak all over.

Lucullus forced him back, making a show of plumping the pillows before laying him back down on them. The tip of the bloody sword rested just below his clavicle. Lucullus made a quick thrust, and the flash of pain made him sit up, and Lucullus threw him back again. "Do you know what you are?" Lucullus asked.

Methos turned his head away.

Lucullus picked up some of the blood onto his finger, and the salt on his skin stung. Methos winced, and tried to get away as the finger came up and smeared his blood onto his lips.

"Don't ignore me, Methos," Lucullus whispered, gently.

Methos' eyes narrowed. "What am I?" he spat.

Lucullus smiled again, and made the nick on his chest a bit deeper. The blood that had pooled ran down between the first of the two ribs it touched. "This is you," Lucullus said, collecting more blood on the same finger. "You run whenever you have to, and you always find the easiest path. Open your mouth."

"No," Methos said, and then pressed his lips together. More blood seeped into his mouth and he almost gagged.

"I said open your mouth, little bird. Open it or I will open it for you and we will see if an immortal can recover from having their head cut off from the jaw rather than the neck," Lucullus said. He brought his finger to Methos' lip, and waited. Methos finally parted them, more to lick off the blood already on his lips than anything else. Without being told to his tongue came out again and cleaned off the finger.

"There's a good boy," Lucullus said. "Did you actually think you would get away?"

"I did before, twice," Methos snapped.

"You only thought you did. The first time I let you go. I let you go because I tired with you and you had...admirably...filled out your part of the bargain. I could not have asked for a better body slave than you, my little bird. What surprised me this time was how long it took you to build up the courage to escape. I finally had to set it up for you, little bird. You did make me lose respect for you."

Methos found himself moving his left ankle just to make sure he could. Lucullus saw the motion under the blankets and smiled. "I am willing guess how much that hurt you. Were you thinking of me when you did it? Did you see my face with the pain? Did you blame me for it as much as everything else I did to you?"

"Yes..." Methos whispered, remembering. Amanda groaned from where she lay, and he saw her knee jerk slightly.

Lucullus moved so that his lips were against Methos' ear. "If you had lied to me I would have taken your head, little bird. Do you know who you belong to?"

Amanda watched them. He looked down at her for a moment and then turned his head to the wall. It angered Lucullus, who then stood up and went to where Amanda lay. "Do you know who you belong to?" Lucullus shouted.

Methos said nothing. Amanda screamed as Lucullus pulled out his gun and shot her in the shoulder. The sound echoed against the walls a couple times and then the only noise came from Amanda's hysterical breathing.

"She means nothing to me," Methos said.

The second shot went through her other shoulder. "Methos!" she screamed, unable to do anything else.

Lucullus saw the way Methos reacted to her screams. He smiled, pressing the gun's muzzle right into her kidney. The metal was hot from the previous shots and it burned her skin as it touched. "Methos, please," Amanda begged.

"Who do you belong to?" Lucullus asked, deceptively sweet.

Methos sighed. "You," he said, quietly.

"What?"

"You," he said, slightly louder.

"Methos..." Lucullus made his name a threat.

"I belong to you," Methos said, and his voice seemed to echo as well. He met Lucullus' eyes.

"Good. Now prove it."

He knew what Lucullus wanted. "Not in front of her," he said, quietly.

"Oh, yes. In front of her. In front of any one. I own you, Methos. You will obey me."

Methos slid out of bed, standing up and walking to them. "On your knees, Methos."

The gun was still pressed into Amanda's lower back, although her shoulders stopped bleeding. She stared at the floor instead of at them.

Methos tried one more time. "The bathroom is just over there," he said, motioning with his chin. "And it has hundreds of things in it you can hurt me with."

Lucullus backhanded him with his gun hand, and he collapsed down to his knees any way. The gun was replaced against Amanda's back. "Do it, Methos."

Still he balked. Lucullus stepped down on Amanda's hand, and he could hear the bones snap. She screamed, but it seemed muted in his ears. "Methos?"

At least Lucullus was using his name. Methos reached up, undoing the slacks. The sound of the zipper seemed louder than the gun- shot. He pulled the slacks down, skipping any of the games. Lucullus didn't need them. Hurting Amanda made him hard.

 

Amanda controlled the sob in her throat, cradling the broken hand to her chest. The pain was extreme, but she could feel her body already mending. Methos wouldn't look at her, and she saw the strength in his profile she had never seen before. It must take much more than she thought to accept people thinking he was a coward than she thought it was possible. Even in his humiliation Methos kept his back straight. They both ignored the sounds of the muffled sucking.

Methos glanced at her once, looking down to her hand and then back to her face. She flexed it and then nodded. He glanced down to it one more time and turned away. She suddenly saw the part of him Duncan was attracted to. It had eluded her, before.

 

Methos saw the change in Amanda's eyes, and then she looked away as well. He nodded. Usually Lucullus was very quiet. Today he grunted and groaned with more pleasure than Methos gave him. But it made Amanda stay very still and the humiliation was killing Methos, and Lucullus knew it.

Finally Lucullus grabbed the back of his head and thrust himself down Methos' throat. Methos hacked, trying to pull back, but Lucullus' grip was iron.

Methos swallowed, knowing that if he spit it up he'd probably be killed. He sat back on his haunches and wiped his mouth.

"Who do you belong to?" Lucullus asked, gently, lifting up his chin.

He didn't have to answer. All three of them turned their heads at the warning. "Soon, little bird," he whispered, and shot Methos in the side. He fell forward, glad for an instant he hadn't ruined yet another shirt. In pain he saw Lucullus return to the bed where the still bloody sword lay in the sheets.

 

"My MacLeod, you do keep such pretty pigeons in your coop," Lucullus said, motioning to where Amanda and Methos sat huddled against the wall. Amanda was still hurting, but she managed to drag Methos away from where the fight was going to be. He swore at her for moving him, and then checked to see if there was an exit wound. There was one, for once. He groaned, throwing his head against the wall.

"If you want me why didn't you just say so?" MacLeod demanded.

Lucullus glanced over Duncan, and Methos could see the slight smile. "Because, MacLeod, you do not interest me in that way," Lucullus said, charmingly.

Methos went to push up, but Amanda grabbed his shoulders. "Don't," she said.

"I can stop this."

"No, you can't," she said, firmly.

The first of the metal on metal sounds filled the barge. There was enough room not to make it extremely dangerous, but Amanda could see Methos flinch at each one. "Don't worry, Methos. You said it yourself. MacLeod is the best."

Another furious clash of swords made them both jump. It was almost over them. Methos refused to look up in case he caught Duncan's eye and pulled him away from the fight. "Why did you do it?" Amanda said to distract him.

"Do what?" he asked, flinching again.

"Stop him."

"You would have done the same thing," Methos said.

"No, I wouldn't have," she said.

He looked up to where Duncan slid his blade down Lucullus and then yanked away.

"If you had to explain to him why you didn't, you would have," Methos said, quietly.

"I--" she said.

Duncan slipped on the carpet. Methos threw himself forward, but only Amanda balanced on his back kept him from joining the fight. "He wouldn't let you interfere," she said, digging her knees into his back. Methos groaned, pathetically, but Amanda wasn't as susceptible as Duncan was. "Down," she said.

But Duncan had already recovered. He scored against Lucullus, catching him on his sword arm. The sight of Lucullus actually bleeding was unique for Methos. It was the first time. Against Lucullus' white shirt the blood was bright red.

"Let me up," Methos said.

She climbed off him, and he hugged his knees to his chest.

An instant later it was over. Duncan disarmed Lucullus and the fallen sword imbedded itself point first into the floor. Duncan stood over the man for a second before bringing the blade back. "Wait," Methos said, climbing to his feet.

"Don't involve yourself, Methos," MacLeod said. He was breathing hard from the battle, and the sword rose and fell on his shoulder with his breathing.

"I want him to see me," Methos said, still approaching. Lucullus' eyes darted over to him, and for once, had to look up to see him. "Continue."

The blade flashed, and the body fell forward. A moment later the head landed beside it.

It was over.

When Duncan finally pushed to his feet again, his shoulders were hunched. Methos wanted to go to him, but held back to where Amanda stood for a moment.

"What do you want, Duncan," Amanda said quietly. All of them knew it wasn't the proper pronoun.

Methos stopped breathing as MacLeod went to Amanda first. He took her hands and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Amanda...I'm sorry," he said.

She took her hands back, gently. "I know," she said. She touched his cheek. "So am I."

Methos watched as she collected her jacket and left without saying anything else. "I know what he did to you," Duncan said, touching his head.

Methos nodded. They were recent memories. They must have been hell for the Scot in their clarity.

"Why, Methos?" Duncan asked. "Why did you let him do those...things to you?"

He shrugged.

The silence continued. He suddenly didn't want to be there, but his apartment keys were in his coat and he had no idea where it was. He didn't even have shoes to put on. He could handle the condemnation in MacLeod's eyes. He could handle the scorn. He could even handle the righteous indignation. It was the pity that killed him. He turned around and started for the door.

MacLeod grabbed his arm. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

"You shouldn't have sent Amanda away."

"I didn't want Amanda."

"Well, you obviously don't want me, either," Methos shot back. He tried to pull away, but not with much force. Understand, MacLeod, he silently asked.

And MacLeod did. Duncan pulled him into his space, kissing him with such violence Methos parted his lips more out of shock than desire. Duncan's tongue was in him, demanding attention and co- operation as he licked Methos' eye teeth one by one. The hand on his arm began working its way up the shoulder and then down his back, only to be joined by Duncan's other hand as both pressed him further into Duncan's body.

Methos let himself go. He moaned, reaching up and feeling the strands of hair that had escaped the pony tail yet were plastered to Duncan's skin with sweat. The excitement of the battle was still in Duncan's muscles, and when he worked his hands down the man's neck he felt another muscle leap against his thigh. He pulled his head back, this time he was allowed, and began nuzzling those beautiful lips that demanded to be nipped and suckled. He began working on the buttons of MacLeod's shirt, but his hands shook so much he couldn't manage most of them. Duncan collected his hands, pressing against his lips before kissing each knuckle, running his tongue through the grooves between each of the peaks. The slippery tongue was hot, and he could feel the white teeth taking in the flap of skin between his thumb for a moment, before kissing the palm.

Duncan let him go, only for a second, and ripped off the shirt. The buttons went flying, and the skittered across the floor like a broken pearl necklace. Methos took over for him, yanking the shirt off and biting the buttons off the cuffs when they refused to let Duncan's hands pass quietly. He was working on the last button when Duncan suddenly grabbed him, spinning him around and held him, back to chest. The arms came down, holding him in place while Duncan kissed his collar bone's length and then started on his neck, working up to his ear. Methos moaned again, rubbing himself against Duncan's body, noticing how well the upper part of his hip fit into the Scot's groin. "Please," he managed, kissing the upper part of the arm that held his chest. His body was on fire, and he had to get out of his filthy jeans.

Duncan laughed, and the laughter was a warm wind only fanned the flames. He began struggling to get free, but it made Duncan only hold him tighter. "Not yet, old man."

Methos suddenly went pliant in his arms. "Please," he repeated, but this time let the word become more than just a plea. He used it to show the pain and desire he was feeling, and Duncan responded immediately.

The blood on the ground-sheet stopped them. "Is it yours?" Duncan asked quietly.

Methos nodded.

Duncan grabbed the entire mattress and flipped it over onto the floor. "I'll buy a new one tomorrow," he said. Methos turned around, trying to come up with words that would soothe the Scot into believing it was nothing, but Duncan took the opportunity to take him in his arms and lower him down on the satiny mattress. The move was straight from a drug-store novel, but having the coolness on his back and the heat of Duncan's body over the rest of him took much of the cliché out of it. He closed his eyes, arching his back as much as he could with the weight on him.

Then, suddenly, the weight was off him. He protested without words, and then felt his jeans being stripped off him and thrown into a corner. He had lost so much weight it wasn't even the usual struggle. A moment later Duncan was back over him, and it was just flesh on glorious flesh.

Duncan's mouth was all over him, and he pulled off the hair tie that released the black hair. The touch on his skin from the silkiness sent shivers battling each other up and down his spinal cord. It was like being mobbed by a herd of butterflies. Each touch was that light. When Duncan finally looked up into his eyes, Methos thought he couldn't handle much more of the delicious torture. "Methos...I'm sorry. I have to have you," he said.

Instead of answering Methos kissed the tip of his nose. "Good," was all he said. Duncan got off him long enough to go through the drawer for the oil, and Methos flipped himself around shuddering. He could feel the man over him without touching him, and that was good, too.

He could feel one finger enter him, working the oil inside him gently. It heated with the friction, and he arched his back even more with pleasure. The finger withdrew long enough to be replaced by Duncan's cock, and Methos whimpered, stretching out under him. Duncan was slow, almost painfully slow in his desire not to hurt, and no amount of his helpless cries begging for depth or speed seemed to have any effect. He gave up, turning his attention to Duncan's forearm, which was conveniently placed right by his cheek. He rubbed up against it with his cheek like a cat, and then kissed each length of the straining muscles. He nuzzled the fist clenched on the mattress, before returning to lick off the salt gathering on the arm's skin.

Not even Duncan had that much control. Eventually the thrusts became quicker, harder and deeper as Duncan approached his climax. The hand with the oil still on it slid down Methos' belly and gathered him up, and that contact alone was almost enough to set him off. He turned away from Duncan's forearm, pressing his cheek against the mattress. The coolness helped regain some control, but then Duncan started whispering to him of love and passion and forever. That brought him to bliss.

He woke up some time later, but the clock was still on the bedside table and he didn't want to move from where Duncan had thrown a blanket over the both of them. Duncan still held him, and he could hear the thumping of the man's heart on his shoulder blade. He reached behind him, feeling the space between them where his skin met up with Duncan's as one body, and then he felt it. Only slightly raised up from Duncan's skin. He traced out his M, once, with his fingertips, and went back to sleep.

The End. Sort of. For now, at least. And what better place to leave our boys?


	7. Epilogue: Surviving the Jabberwocky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos has to deal with what has happened to him and takes it out on Duncan.

Methos, Duncan and the concept of Immortality belong to Panzer, Davis, Rysher Entertainment, and Gaumont Television. They have since been returned. Promise.

author's note--

Epilogue of the Hand series. Thank you, Olympia, for everything! You are the greatest. The Hand series so far: Part I "Forcing the Hand" Part II "Giving the Hand Away" Part III "Biting the Hand that Feeds" Part IV "The Claws that Catch" Part V "The Jaws that Bite" Part VI "Vorpal Sword in Hand" Part VII epilogue "Surviving the Jabberwocky"

"Surviving the Jabberwocky" By Barb Geiger

Author's 2nd note--I know I said six parts, I lied. The end of Vorpal Sword wasn't exactly the end I wanted. So here it is.

Methos glanced back to the couch, but the lug was still into his book and didn't seem to notice the other occupant of the barge. He tested the freedom, sitting up from the pillows and stretched. When that brought no response he slid his legs closer to the edge.

"Freeze," Duncan said, not looking up.

He threw himself back into the pillows in disgust. The bed was all new, and it felt like he was held captive in a furniture show room. The smell of the factory hid what ever smell Duncan may have had, not that the damned Scot had joined him since the first night. "I'm bored," he finally said from the depths of the pillows.

"You still have three days."

"I can get over being completely dead in an hour, MacLeod. Why do you think it is going to take me a week to get over getting a bit cold?" Methos snapped.

Duncan put the book down and moved to the bed. He sat down next to where Methos lay and stroked his cheek. "Because you still are not feeling better."

Methos threw Duncan's hand off him. "Like hell I'm not. I refuse to spend one more second in the bed and if you try to tie me down to it I wouldn't go to sleep again if I were you," he spat out in one breath. To prove his point he threw the covers off and climbed to his feet. They were only a little shaky.

Duncan's eyes narrowed with concern, and Methos glared at him. "I haven't moved in four days because of you."

Duncan threw his hands up. Methos moved to the couch and took the book Duncan was reading. "Dull," he announced, throwing it over his shoulder. "Come sit with me," he invited.

But MacLeod wouldn't move from the side of the bed. "Methos, no," he said, quietly.

"Why not?" Methos asked.

"Because. You aren't ready."

"I'm not ready? You are the one who doesn't want to touch me."

Duncan went to him, and for a moment Methos felt his body almost sliding away to keep from being touched. He went to say something, but they were interrupted by a warning.

"Honey, get the door," Methos said, slumping further into the sofa away from him.

Duncan stood and brought his sword out. He sliced the air bringing it along his body, but it was only Amanda.

"Methos, darling," she said, ignoring Duncan except to pass over the bag she carried into his free hand.

Methos offered his cheek and she kissed it, peckingly. "Duncan, the beer. We don't want it getting warm," she said, and then sat down next to him. "How are you?"

"A bit tired," he allowed, playing the game just to annoy Duncan. He looked over to his lover. "The beer?" he asked.

"Right," Duncan said. MacLeod did not look happy. He went into the kitchen and unloaded the bag.

"There are some fruit in there as well. If you could wash it? Methos here looks like he could use some healthy food for a change. You should be getting more sun, darling, you don't look well at all."

Methos made a vague gesture towards MacLeod and Amanda nodded like that explained it all. "Poor thing."

"What are you doing here, Amanda?" Duncan asked, bringing out a beer for Methos.

Methos shied away from it for a moment. "Are you going to hit me over the head with it?" he asked.

"If I knew for sure it would kill you," Duncan said. His lips were pulled back, but Methos wouldn't have called it a smile. He took the opened bottle, gingerly, but then Duncan returned to the kitchen area to bring back the plate of washed fruit. Amanda picked up a small bunch of grapes and began feeding them to Methos, one by one.

"Just checking to make sure Methos is recovering. I hate to imagine you being the only nurse he has."

Methos smiled at Duncan for a second and then took another sip of beer. He ran the bottle over his forehead before putting it down. "We have other matters to discuss as well. Could you give us five minutes?" he asked.

Duncan froze. "You're kicking me out of my own barge?" he demanded.

"Our barge," Methos reminded him, gently. "My apartment is locked up and I can't get into it, remember?"

"I'll be outside if you need me," Duncan said, looking back and forth between the two. "Either of you. Right outside. I should be able to hear the screams."

"Go," they said, together.

Duncan went.

 

Methos kept the amused expression on his face until he heard the door shut, and then threw himself down in the couch. He was, of course, very careful not to spill his beer. "That man," he announced, motioning the door with the bottle. "That man is," he ran out of things to say. It was probably a good thing.

"Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," Amanda said, imitating his accent flawlessly. It made Methos smiled, but bitterly. "Have you told him what happened?" she asked, suddenly serious.

"Some of it. What he could glean from the quickening I confirmed."

"Does he know about...here?"

Methos shook his head. "No. And you aren't going to tell him."

"How are you, Methos?"

He stood up. "That is a pointless question."

"It has a very good point."

"No, it doesn't. This isn't the first time it's happened, Amanda."

She stood up as well, and put her hand on his shoulder. "It doesn't get any easier."

"Amanda, I am telling you I am fine. I'm just a little tired. And do not mention this to MacLeod."

"You are a little tired," she said, shaking her head. "Why is that, Methos? It's been four days."

"I know how long it's been!" Methos snapped, and then glanced to the door. "You don't have to tell me, Amanda," he said. His voice was much more quiet.

"I'm sorry," she said, quietly. "I think you should tell him."

"No," Methos said, he moved back to the couch. "He's already afraid to touch me and he didn't even know you were involved."

She sat down beside him, putting her hand on his knee. Methos removed it after a second. They were silent for a very long time. "You poor thing," she whispered.

"I don't need your pity, Amanda."

Duncan knocked before letting himself in. "That was five minutes," he said from the stairs.

Amanda patted his shoulder again. "I was just leaving," she said and stood up.

Methos watched her go. "What did you two talk about?" Duncan asked, quietly.

Methos stood up as well, moving into Duncan's space. "That little trick you do with your tongue. Right behind the ear? You know what I am talking about."

Duncan kissed his forehead, but moved away, picking up an apple from the plate and biting into it.

"Let's go to bed," Methos said, following him.

"I thought you didn't want to spend one more second in bed," Duncan said.

"Bed, floor, couch, shower, back of your car," Methos said, and suddenly grinned. "Back of my car. You break in, I'll sweep the glass off the seat. 'Course there isn't a whole lot of room, but how much do we really need?"

"Methos, no."

"Why not?"

"Because you haven't--"

Methos turned away, pulling on the new boots Duncan bought for him. They were still too new. He looked around for his jacket and sword.

"Where are you going?" Duncan asked, stepping between him and the door.

Methos looked up at him. "Don't do this, Duncan. You can't keep me locked away even if you are only trying to protect me from myself."

"You are in no condition to handle a challenge if one happens."

"And so I am not supposed to stray out of your shadow?" Methos demanded.

"Fine, you want to go out, we'll go out."

"You aren't hearing me. I want to go out, MacLeod. Alone."

"No."

"No?" Methos asked.

"I won't let you."

"You won't...let me?" Methos asked. His voice was getting colder and colder.

"You go out and you are begging someone to take your head."

"It's my head."

"But I'm attached to it." MacLeod took his arm. "I love you, Methos."

"Then prove it."

"By what, fucking you?"

"It's a great place to start."

"You don't want to be fucked."

"And you know this because...?" Methos asked.

"What happened--"

"What happened happened. It's over, Duncan. I don't want to think about it any more."

"Pushing it back doesn't make it go away, Methos."

Methos put his hands over his ears. "Stop with the popular psychology, MacLeod. You're giving me a head ache."

Duncan kissed him, gently. "All right. Let's make love."

"You had your chance, MacLeod."

"You're in no condition to get into a challenge," Duncan said. "But in case it happens, try to stay at least part way sober." MacLeod turned away, munching on the apple and going through the fridge.

Methos' back knotted up as he went up the stairs, and once he was outside he had a sudden attack of nerves, but swore at himself. He stepped down off the barge. It happened before. It would probably happen again. He just needed time.

 

The bar was busy. Methos found a stool and stayed on it until early in the morning. He returned to the barge, unable to work the key quite as well as he remembered. Duncan opened it before he could try for the third time.

"You're drunk," MacLeod said.

"Yes, I am," Methos agreed.

"Did you find your oblivion?"

Methos grinned. He wrapped his arms around Duncan, kissing his shoulder. "I came back," he said. . Duncan kissed him back, but a moment later Methos was limp in his arms. "You," was all MacLeod said. He picked up the drunk immortal and put him in bed, taking his clothes off. Duncan tucked him in, kissing his cheek like he was a child and spent the night on the couch. Not that he slept.

 

The next morning Duncan woke up alone. That didn't surprise him. He got up, making a quick breakfast, and grabbed up his sword. When Amanda came down the stairs he stowed it away again.

Amanda glanced around the barge. "Where is he?"

"Gone."

"And you aren't upset?"

"If he comes back he comes back."

"That bad?"

"What do you want, Amanda?"

"To see Methos."

"He's not here. If he ever comes back, I'll get him to call you."

"That's it?"

"What else is there? I can't live his life."

"No, you can't. But you can try to accept what has happened to him."

"What do you know about what has happened to him?"

"Do you think because you took in a few fleeting seconds of the life of the man who hurt him you understand completely what it is to be hurt?" Amanda demanded.

"I am not having this conversation. Good bye, Amanda."

She hit his chest. It wasn't a very hard, but it was enough to hurt. "Listen to me, Duncan. Talk to him."

"He doesn't want to talk to me. I tried that. Any more brilliant ideas?"

"You didn't try," she said, and then turned away to go.

"I did," Duncan protested.

"MacLeod, I love you. I never stopped. But you don't listen. You never listen. You talk and you call that a conversation."

Duncan didn't respond. Amanda took his unprotesting hand and kissed the back of it. "Listen, Duncan. That's all he wants from you."

Duncan twisted his wrist and captured her hand in his. "Thank you," he said, quietly.

She smiled. "Tell Methos we are now even," she said, and left.

 

Duncan spent the day alone. When the sky darkened and Methos hadn't returned yet he began to accept the fact the old man was gone. He poured himself a drink and sat down on the couch in the dark.

He felt the warning just after midnight, and opened the door before who ever it was even got that far.

Methos stopped climbing up onto the barge. He was sober but furious, and met Duncan's eyes with such scorn. "You are a fucking piece of work, MacLeod," Methos growled, pushing past him.

Duncan didn't say anything. He just locked the door behind them.

"Aren't you going to ask me where I was? No, who am I kidding. Aren't you going to demand to know where I was?" Methos asked, pacing the open area. He walked on the balls of his feet, prowling trying to vent some of his apparent anger.

Duncan calmly shook his head. "If you want me to know you'll tell me," he said, quietly.

Methos turned on him. "That bitch. I should have killed her. I should have let Lucullus do it."

He didn't understand that, but said nothing. He waited for anything.

The old man's eyes narrowed. "I was at the airport," he said. "Watching planes take off all day. Do you know what stopped me?"

Duncan shook his head.

"My bank won't open until Monday," Methos said, letting the words do their damage.

Duncan stood up, going to his wallet. He took out his credit cards and passed them to Methos, silently.

Methos took them and smiled, bitterly. "Thank you," he said, sarcastically and headed for the door. He made it to the first step before turning on Duncan. "That's it? You would have let me go?"

"Yes," Duncan said, quietly.

"I thought you said you loved me."

"I do."

"Then why was I good enough the first night when you needed me and you haven't touched me since?" Methos snapped.

"Because...I'm sorry, Methos."

"You're sorry?" the words lashed out. Duncan almost winced. "And that makes everything better. That makes the whole thing so much better, Duncan. See, now we can live happily ever after."

Duncan went to him, but not to close. The anger coming from Methos was a body shield a foot away from him, and Duncan stopped just short of it. "It must have been horrible for you."

"What would you know about it, MacLeod?" Methos asked, scathingly. His voice was so low the words escaped rather than were spoken out loud. He met Duncan's eyes, and there was so much hatred in front of the pain.

"I've been afraid for my life before," Duncan whispered.

"For split seconds at a time," Methos snapped.

Duncan took his hand, moving into his space slowly so that there would be no sudden movements. He took Methos' hand, and it was cold in his own. He brought it to his cheek, for a moment, and then kissed the palm before pressing it against his heart. "I love you," he said, quietly.

"More miracle words, MacLeod?" Methos demanded, but for once there was more pain than hatred in his voice.

"No," Duncan said, quietly. "The truth. Nothing more."

"You aren't going to try to heal me? To get me to embrace what happened and accept it? I won't. I am not accepting anything any more. Not from him, not from you. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"You don't hear me," Methos snapped. He suddenly remembered Duncan still held his hand and snatched it back.

Duncan let him go. He turned away and went back into the main room. Methos stayed on the first step. Instead of anger he wrapped himself with uncertainty. "So what now, MacLeod?" he demanded.

"Nothing. If you don't want to be here you should go. Would asking you to be careful be too much?"

Methos stepped off the step. "This isn't like you," he said, carefully.

 

"No, it isn't," Duncan agreed. "But you came back."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It wasn't like you, either."

"So?"

"If you could learn to care, why do you have so much problems with thinking I can't learn to accept?"

The anger was back. He descended upon Duncan with the fury of a fallen angel. "Do you want to accept it for me?" Methos demanded. Duncan backed until his back was to the wall. "You make me laugh. You goddamn child. You naive little boy. Do you accept what it feels like to have a noose around your throat crushing your breath out of your body so that a man can fuck you easier?" Methos demanded. "Do you want to accept how I took a knife and cut his name into my body because I was more afraid of death than the pain?" His lips curled up into a sort of smile. "Accept that, Duncan. Accept how I voluntarily got on my knees in your boat because your friend was getting hurt and swallowed like a good little whore. You don't want me, MacLeod. Accept that."

"No," Duncan said. "Everything but that," he touched Methos' face. "Everything but that."

Methos started shivering. "MacLeod, don't."

"Don't what?" he took a step forward. He kissed Methos, gently, on the lips. Methos shivering turned into tremors.

"I should go," Methos said, pulling away from the kiss. It was as far as he got.

Duncan let him. "Would it be too much of a control if I could drive you to the airport?"

Methos didn't speak. He didn't move. For a few moments Duncan didn't think Methos was breathing, but then he saw the fluttering of the nostrils. And then the bottom lip jerked. Duncan reached up and stroked it with his thumb. "It's okay," he whispered.

Methos knees buckled, and Duncan caught him before he fell. Instead of picking him up Duncan lowered him carefully down to the floor. The tremors in Methos body turned more violent, but still the hazel eyes remained clear. The hatred was gone. Duncan rocked him gently to his body like he was a child.

Methos finally pushed away. "I want to go to bed," he said, quietly.

Duncan pushed to his feet and pulled Methos up beside him. "No arguments here."

Methos pressed a finger to his lips. "I want to go to sleep. I'm sorry, Duncan."

"I understand."

"This new you..." Methos said, and then hesitated.

"What?" Duncan asked.

"I like it. A lot."

Duncan didn't smile. "Like is such a lukewarm word. Couldn't you do a little better?"

"I love you," Methos said. He kissed Duncan on the cheeks. "And in the morning I'll prove it to you."

 

Methos woke just as the first grey light appeared on the wall. He stretched his shoulder muscles until they popped and then decided Duncan had slept enough. He slid down Duncan's body and woke him with a kiss.

"Umh," Duncan said, throwing an arm over his eyes. "What time is it?" he groaned

"Morning," Methos said.

"Any particular hour?"

"Believe me, you don't want to know," Methos said with a smile. Duncan lifted his arm up long enough to look into Methos' eyes, and for the first time the playful glint was back.

Duncan went to stretch as well, and Methos backed away slightly to avoid one of his arms. Duncan moved faster than he expected, and suddenly Methos was on his back with Duncan over him. He reached up and played with Duncan's hair. "Well, I guess you caught me," he whispered.

"I guess I did. If I let you up will you roll over quietly?"

"If I say no?" Methos asked, quietly.

"We'll do it less quietly."

"That could be fun, too, you know."

"Yes, but it might take a bit longer."

"There is that consideration."

"Methos?"

"Yes, Duncan?"

"Shut up and roll over."

"Yes, Duncan," Methos said. He was smiling.

Duncan let him up, and he obediently rolled onto his belly. Cold air touched his back as Duncan sat up for a moment and took the blankets with him. He was about to complain when he felt the first drops of cold oil splashed on his back. Methos whined in protest, moving his shoulders.

"Enough," Duncan said, and he could feel Duncan moving over his lower back. "You are such a baby sometimes."

Methos snorted, but Duncan had already put his hands on Methos' back and so became rapidly forgiven. He groaned, arching his back. The scent of the lavenders came to him, and Duncan's wonderful hands brought the oil to body temperature and higher. He groaned, turning his head away.

Duncan's hands worked down from his shoulders onto his back. He spasmed, arching his spine. Duncan stopped for a moment, leaning over his body and kissed behind his ear. "Wait for it," the Scot whispered. His hair fell against Methos' cheek, and the tickling sensation went right to his groin.

"I could still hurt you," Methos threatened, moving against the bed sheets.

"Wait for it," Duncan repeated, and for a maddening instant Methos thought he was going to start from the beginning again, but Duncan only let his hands linger for a moment over his shoulders. They moved downwards, gently working down his rib cage. More oil splashed down on the small of his back, but Duncan must have kept it next to his body because it was warm. It worked into his buttocks, almost haphazardly, and then Duncan began down his upper thighs.

"No," Methos moaned.

"What?"

"You bully. Please. I'm dying."

The first finger slid inside him. It could have been an electrical prod. Methos jerked forward, biting down on the pillow. Duncan saw what he was doing and gently removed it with his free hand. "I want to hear you," he corrected.

The finger was inside him, but it didn't move. "Oh, to your god, please, Duncan." He reached up and grabbed the edge of the mattress. He tried to control his breathing and survive the slow start, but all he wanted to do was be battered and Duncan would never understand. "Please," he whispered, again. The finger withdrew, and then two of them slipped inside, bringing more of the warm oil inside him. He bucked, trying to thrust himself on the fingers but that didn't work either. Duncan wouldn't co-operate. He pulled away.

"Damn you," he hissed.

"That goes a long way from I love you, darling," Duncan said, lightly.

"A lot has changed since this morning," Methos gritted out.

And then Duncan was over him and in him and the force of it threw him forward. Instead of being gentle, though, Duncan grabbed his hips and slammed inside him. Methos threw his head back, thrilling over the strength of his lover as much as the actual pressure it created. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a satisfied breath to Duncan's rhythm.

Duncan, after the slow torment he put him through, didn't last at all. With no other contact but the bed sheets Methos lost control with him.

 

He woke up later in the morning with Duncan still over top of him. "Methos?" he heard in his ear.

"Um?" he said, and then turned his head to put his ear in a more convenient nuzzling position.

"Amanda says you're even now."

He laughed, but the sound barely left his chest. "Umm... okay."

The End.


End file.
